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In the Roar of the Sea 


By S?^]^aring-Gould 


AUTHOR OF 


“The Pennycomequicks,” “Urith,” etc., etc. 







NEW YORK AND LONDON 
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS 





THE L'iRARY 
CL NGRtSi', 

Two Cc-fiaa t’sceve® 

APR. 21 ’9^2 

,iL.l9ci- 




CLASS Nai. 

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Copyright, 1852, 

By UNITED STATES BOOK CO. 



Cop5rright, 1902, 

By STREET & SMITH 

All rights reserved. 


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( 


O THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 


CHAPTEE I. 

OVER AND DONE. 

Sitting in the parsonage garden, in a white frock, 
with a pale green sash about her waist, leaning back 
against the red-brick wall, her glowing copper hair lit 
by the evening sun, was Judith Trevisa. 

She was tossing guelder-roses into the air; some 
dozens were strewn about her feet on the gravel, but 
one remained of the many she had plucked and thrown 
and caught, and thrown and caught again for a sunny 
afternoon hour. As each greenish- white ball of flowers 
went up into the air it diffused a faint but pleasant fra- 
grance. 

“When I have done with you, my beauty, I have 
done altogether,” said Judith. 

“ With what ? ” 

Her father spoke. He had come up unperceived by 
the girl, burdened with a shovel in one hand and a 
bucket in the other, looking pale, weary, and worn. 

“ Papa, you nearly spoiled my game. Let me finish, 
and I will speak.” 

“Is it a very serious matter, Judith, and engross- 
ing?” 

“ Engrossing, but not serious, Je m’amuseJ* 

The old rector seated himself on the bench beside her, 
and he also leaned back against the red-brick, gold-and- 
gray-lichen-spotted wall, and looked into the distance 
before him, waiting till his daughter was ready to speak, 
not, perhaps, sorry to have a little rest first, for he was 
overtired. Had Judith not been absorbed in her ball- 
play with the guelder-rose bunch she would have noticed 


6 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


his hagg*ard appearance, the green hue about his mouth, 
the sunken eyes, the beaded brow. But she was count- 
ing the rebounds of her ball, bent on sustaining her play 
as long as was possible to her. 

She formed a charming picture, fresh and pure, and 
had the old man not been overtired, he would have 
thought so with a throb of x)arental pride. 

She was a child in size, slender in build, delicate in 
bone, with face and hands of porcelain transparency and 
whiteness, with, moreover, that incomparable complexion 
only seen in the British Isles, and then only with red- 
gold hair. 

Her bronze-leather shoes were the hue of some large 
flies that basked and frisked on the warm wall, only 
slightly disturbed by the girl’s play, to return again and 
run and preen themselves again, and glitter jewel -like as 
studs on that sun-baked, lichen-enamelled wall. Her 
eyes, moreover, were lustrous as the backs of these flies, 
iridescent with the changing lights of the declining 
sun, and the changed direction of her glance following 
the dancing ball of guelder-rose. Her long fingers 
might have been of china, but that when raised so that 
the sun struck their backs they were turned to a trans- 
lucent rose. There was no color in her cheek, only the 
faintest suffusion of pink on the temples below where 
the hair was rolled back in waves of luminous molten 
copper dashing against the brick wall. 

“ I have done my work,” said the rector. 

“ And I my play,” responded the girl, letting the ball 
drop into her lap and rock there from one knee to the 
other. “Papa, this fellow is the conqueror; I have 
made him dance thirty -five great leaps, and he has not 
yet fallen— wilfully I let him go down and get breath 
just now. There lie all my dancers dead about me. 
They failed very speedily.” 

“ You cannot be forever playing, Ju.” 

“ That is why I play now, papa. When playtime is 
over I shall be in earnest indeed.” 

“ Indeed % ” the old man sighed. 

Judith looked round, and was shocked to see how ill 
her father appeared to be. 

“ Are you very tired, darling papa ? ” 

“ Yes — overtired.” 

“ Have you been at your usual task ? ” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


7 


“ Yes, Ju — an unprofitable task.” 

“ Oh, papa ! ” 

“ Yes, unprofitable. The next wind from the sea that 
blows — one will blow in an hour — and all my work is 
undone.” 

“ But, my dear papa ! ” Judith stooped and looked 
into the bucket. “ Why ! — what has made you bring- a 
load of sand up here? We want none in the garden. 
And such a distance too ! — from the church. No wonder 
you are tired.” 

“ Have I brought it ? ” he asked, without looking at 
the bucket. 

“ You have, indeed. That, if you please, is unprofit- 
able work, not the digging of the church out of the 
sand-heaps that swallow it.” 

“ My dear, I did not know that I had not emptied the 
pail outside the church-yard gate. I am very tired; 
perhaps that explains it.” 

“ No doubt about it, papa. It was work quite as un- 
profitable but much more exhausting than my ball-play. 
Now, papa, while you have been digging your church 
out of the sand, which will blow over it again to-night, 
you say, I have been pitching and tossing guelder-roses. 
We have been both wasting time, one as much as the 
other.” 

“One as much as the other,” repeated the old man. 
“ Yes, dear, one as much as the other, and I have been 
doing it all my time here — morally, spiritually, as well 
as materially, digging the church out of the smothering 
sands, and all in vain — all profitless work. You are 
right, Ju.” 

“Papa,” said Judith hastily, seeing his discourage- 
ment and knowing his tendency to depression, “papa, 
do you hear the sea how it roars ? I have stood on the 
bench, more than once, to look out seaward, and find a 
reason for it; but there is none — all blue, blue as a 
larkspur; and not a cloud in the sky— all blue, blue 
there too. No wind either, and that is why I have done 
well with my ball-play. Do you hear the roar of the 
sea, papa ? ” she repeated. 

“ Yes, Ju. There will be a storm shortly. The sea is 
thrown into great swells of rollers, a sure token that 
something is coming. Before night a gale will be on 
us.” 


8 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Then ensued silence. Judith with one finger trifled 
with the guelder-rose bunch in her lap musingly, not 
desirous to resume her play with it. Something in her 
father’s manner was unusual, and made her uneasy. 

“ My dear ! ” he began, after a pause, “ one must look 
out to sea — into the vast mysterious sea of the future — 
and prepare for what is coming from it. Just now the 
air is still, and we sit in this sweet, sunny garden, and 
lean our backs against the warm wall, and smell the fra- 
grance of the flowers ; but we hear the beating of the 
sea, and know that a mighty tempest, with clouds and 
darkness, is coming. So in other matters we must look 
out and be ready — count the time till it comes. My 
dear, when I am gone ” 

“ Papa ! ” 

“ We were looking out to sea and listening. That 
must come at some time — it may come sooner than you 
anticipate.” He paused, heaved a sigh, and said, “ Oh, 
Jamie ! What are we to do about Jamie ? ” 

“ Papa, I will always take care of Jamie.” 

“ But who will take care of you ? ” 

“ Of me ? Oh, papa, surely I can take care of myself ! ” 

He shook his head doubtfully. 

“ Papa, you know how strong I am in will— how firm 
I can be with Jamie.” 

“ But all mankind are not Jamies. It is not for you 
I fear, as much as for you and him together. He is a 
trouble and a difficulty.” 

“ J amie is not so silly and troublesome as you think. 
All he needs is application. He cannot screw his mind 
down to his books — to any serious occupation. But that 
will come. I have heard say that the stupidest children 
make the sharpest men. Little by little it will come, 
but it will come certainly. I will set myself as my task 
to make Jamie apply his mind and become a useful man, 
and I shall succeed, papa.” She caught her father’s hand 
between hers, and slapped it joyously, confidently. “ How 
cold your hand is, papa! and yet you look warm.” 

“ You were always Jamie’s champion,” said her father, 
not noticing her remark relative to himself. 

“ He is my twin brother, so of course I am his cham- 
pion. Who else would be that, were not I ? ” 

“ No — no one else. He is mischievous and trouble- 
some-poor, poor fellow. You will always be to Jamie 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


9 


what you are now, Ju — his protector or champion ? He 
is weak and foolish, and if he were to fall into bad hands 
— I shudder to think what might become of him.” 

“ Kely on me, dearest father.” 

Then he lifted the hand of his daughter, and looked 
at it with a faint smile. “It is very small, it is very 
weak, to fight for self alone, let alone yourself encum- 
bered with Jamie.” 

“ I will do it, papa, do not fear.” 

“ Judith, I must talk very gravely with you, for the 
future is very dark to me ; and I am unable with hand 
or brain to provide anything against the evil day. 
Numbness is on me, and I have been hampered on every 
side. For one thing, the living has been so poor, and 
my parishioners so difficult to deal with, that I have been 
able to lay by but a trifle. I believe I have not a relative 
in the world — none, at all events, near enough and known 
to me that I dare ask him to care for you ” 

“ Papa, there is Aunt Dionysia.” 

“ Aunt Dionysia,” he repeated, with a hesitating voice. 
“ Yes ; but Aunt Dionysia is — is not herself capable of 
taking charge of you. She has nothing but what she 
earns, and then — Aunt Dionysia is — is — well — Aunt Di- 
onysia. I don’t think you could be happy with her, even 
if, in the event of my departure, she were able to take 
care of you. Then — and that chiefly — she has chosen, 
against my express wishes — I may say, in defiance of me 
— to go as housekeeper into the service of the man, of 
all others, who has been a thorn in my side, a hinderer 
of God’s work, a — But I will say no more.” 

“What! Cruel Coppinger ? ” 

“ Yes, Cruel Coppinger. I might have been the means 
of doing a little good in this place, God knows ! ^ I only 
thinh I might ; but I have been thwarted, defied, insulted 
by that man. As I have striven to dig my buried church 
out of the overwhelming sands, so have I striven to lift 
the souls of my poor parishioners out of the dead en- 
gulfing sands of savagery, brutality, very heathenism of 
their mode of life, and I have been frustrated. The 
winds have blown the sands back with every gale over 
my work with spade, and that stormblast Coppinger has 
devastated every trace of good that I have done, or tried 
to do, in spiritual matters. The Lord reward him ac- 
cording to his works.” 


10 


m THE ROAR OF TEE SEA. 


Judith felt her father’s hand tremble in hers. 

Never mind Coppinger nbw,” she said, soothingly. 

“ I must mind him,” said the old man, with severe 
vehemence. “ And — that my own sister should go, go — 
out of defiance, into his house and serve him ! That was 
too much. I might well say, I have none to whom to 
look as your protector.” He paused awhile, and wiped 
his brow. His pale lips were quivering. “I do not 
mean to say,” said he, “ that I acted with judgment, 
when first I came to S. Enodoc, when I spoke against 
smuggling. I did not understand it then. I thought 
with the thoughts of an inlander. Here — the sands 
sweep over the fields, and agriculture is in a measure 
impossible. The bays and creeks seem to 'invite — well 
— I leave it an open question. But with regard to wreck- 
ing — ” His voice, which had quavered in feebleness, 
according with the feebleness of his judgment relative 
to smuggling, now gained sonorousness. “ Wrecking, 
deliberate wrecking, is quite another matter. I do not 
say that our people are not justified in gathering the 
harvest the sea casts up. There always must be, there 
will be wrecks on this terrible coast ; but there has been 
— I know there has been, though I have not been able to 
prove it — deliberate provocation of wrecks, and that is 
the sin of Cain. Had I been able to prove ” 

“ Never mind that now, dear papa. Neither I nor Ja- 
mie are, or will be, wreckers. Talk of something else. 
You over-excite yourself.” 

Judith was accustomed to hear her father talk in an 
open manner to her. She had been his sole companion 
for several years, since his wife’s death, and she had be- 
come the confidante of his inmost thoughts, his vacilla- 
tions, his discouragements, not of his hopes — for he had 
none, nor of his schemes — for he formed none. 

“ I do not think I have been of any use in this world,” 
said the old parson, relapsing into his tone of discour- 
agement, the temporary flame of anger having died 
away. “ My sowing has jDroduced no harvest. I have 
brought light, help, strength to none. I have dug all 
day in the vineyard, and not a vine is the better for it ; 
all cankered and fruitless.” 

“ Papa — and me ! Have you done nothing for me ? ” 

“You ! ” 

He had not thought of his child. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


11 


“ Papa ! Do you think that I have grained naught 
from you ? No strength, no resolution from seeing you 
toil on in your thankless work, without apparent results ? 
If I have any energy and principle to carry me through 
I owe it to you.” 

He was moved, and raised his trembling hand and laid 
it on her golden head. 

He said no more, and was very still. 

Presently she spoke. His hands weighed heavily on 
her head. 

“ Papa, you are listening to the roar of the sea ? ” 

He made no reply. 

“ Papa, I felt a cold breath ; and see, the sun has a 
film over it. Surely the sea is roaring louder ! ” 

His hand slipped from her head and struck her 
shoulder — roughly, she thought. She turned, startled, 
and looked at him. His eyes were open, he was leaning 
back, almost fallen against the wall, and was deadly 
pale. 

“ Papa, you are listening to the roar? ” 

Then a thought struck her like a bullet in the heart. 

“ Papa ! Papa ! My papa ! — speak — speak ! ” 

She sprang from the bench — was before him. Her 
left guelder-rose had rolled, had bounded from her lap, 
and had fallen on the sand the old man had listlessly 
brought up from the church. His work, her play, were 
forever over. 


'1 


CHAPTEE n. 


A PASSAGE OF ARMS. 

The stillness preceding- the storm had yielded. A gale 
had broken over the coast, raged against the cliffs of 
Pentyre, and battered the walls of the parsonage, with- 
out disturbing the old rector, whom no storm would 
trouble again, soon to be laid under the sands of his 
buried church-yard, his very mound to be heaped over in 
a few years, and obliterated by waves of additional en- 
croaching sand. J udith had not slept all night. She — 
she, a mere child, had to consider and arrange everything 
consequent on the death of the master of the house. 
The servants — cook and house-maid — had been of little, 
if any, assistance to her. When Jane, the house-maid, 
had rushed into the kitchen with the tidings that the old 
parson was dead, cook, in her agitation, upset the kettle 
and scalded her foot. The gardener’s wife had come in 
on hearing the news, and had volunteered help. Judith 
had given her the closet-key to fetch from the stores 
something needed; and Jamie, finding access to the 
closet, had taken possession of a pot of raspberry jam, 
carried it to bed with him, and spilled it over the sheets, 
besides making himself ill. The house-maid, Jane, had 
forgotten in her distraction to shut the best bedroom 
casement, and the gale during the night had wrenched it 
from its hinges, flung it into the garden on the roof of 
the small conservatory, and smashed both. Moreover, 
the casement being open, the rain had driven into the 
room unchecked, had swamped the floor, run through 
and stained the drawing-room ceiling underneath, the 
drips had fallen on the mahogany table and blistered the 
veneer. A messenger was sent to Pentyre Glaze for 
Miss Dionysia Trevisa, and she would probably arrive in 
an hour or two. 

Mr. Trevisa, as he had told Judith, was solitary, sin- 
gularly so. He was of a good Cornish family, but it was 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


13 


one that had dwindled till it had ceased to have other 
representative than himself. Once well estated, at 
Crockadon, in S. Mellion, all the lands of the family had 
been lost ; once with merchants in the family, all the 
fortunes of these merchants industriously gathered had 
been dissipated, and nothing had remained to the Kev- 
erend Peter Trevisa but his family name and family coat, 
a garb or, on a field gules. It really seemed as though 
the tinctures of the shield had been fixed in the crown of 
splendor that covered the head of Judith. But she did 
not derive this wealth of red-gold hair from her Cornish 
ancestors, but from a Scottish mother, a poor governess 
whom Mr. Peter Trevisa had married, thereby exciting 
the wrath of his only sister and relative, Miss Dionysia, 
who had hitherto kept house for him, and vexed his soul 
with her high-handed proceedings. It was owing to 
some insolent words used by her to Mrs. Trevisa that 
Peter had quarrelled with his sister at first. Then when 
his wife died, she had forced herself on him as house- 
keeper, but again her presence in the house had become 
irksome to him, and when she treated his children — his 
delicate and dearly loved Judith — with roughness, and his 
timid, silly Jamie with harshness, amounting in his view 
to cruelty — harsh words had passed between them; 
sharp is, however, hardly the expression to use for the 
carefully worded remonstrances of the mild rector, 
though appropriate enough to her rejoinders. Then 
she had taken herself off and had become housekeeper 
to Curll Coppinger, Cruel Coppinger, as he was usually 
called, who occupied Pentyre Glaze, and was a fairly 
well-to-do single man. 

Mr. Trevisa had not been a person of energy, but 
one of culture and refinement ; a dispirited, timid man. 
Finding no neighbors of the same mental texture, nor 
sympathetic, he had been driven to make of Judith, 
though a child, his companion, and he had poured into 
her ear all his troubles, which largely concerned the 
future of his children. In his feebleness he took com- 
fort from her sanguine confidence, though he was well 
aware that it was bred of ignorance, and he derived a 
weak satisfaction from the thought that he had pre- 
pared her morally, at all events, if in no other fashion, 
for the crisis that must come when he was withdrawn. 

Mr. Peter Trevisa —Peter was a family Christian name 


14 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


— was for twenty-five years rector of S. Enodoc, on the 
north coast of Cornwall at the mouth of the Camel. 
The sand dunes had encroached on the church of S. 
Enodoc, and had enveloped the sacred structure. A hole 
' was broken through a window, through which the inte- 
rior could be reached, where divine service was per- 
formed occasionally in the presence of the church- war- 
dens, so as to establish the right of the rectors, and 
through this same hole bridal parties entered to be 
coupled, with their feet ankle-deep in sand that filled the 
interior to above the pew-tops. 

But Mr. Trevisa was not the man to endure such a 
condition of affairs without a protest and an effort to 
remedy it. He had endeavored to stimulate the farmers 
and land-owners of the parish to excavate the buried 
church, but his endeavors had proved futile. There 
were several reasons for this. In the first place, and cer- 
tainly foremost, stood this reason : as long as the church 
was choked with sand and could not be employed for 
regular divine service, the tithe-payers could make a 
grievance of it, and excuse themselves from paying their 
tithes in full, because, as they argued, “ Parson don’t give 
us sarvice, so us ain’t obliged to pay’n.” They knew 
their man, that he was tender-conscienced, and would not 
bring the law to bear upon them ; he would see that 
there was a certain measure of justness in the argument, 
and would therefore not demand of them a tithe for 
which he did not give them the quid pro quo. But they 
had sufficient shrewdness to pay a portion of their 
tithes, so as not to drive him to extremities and exhaust 
his patience. It will be seen, therefore, that in the in- 
terests of their pockets the tithe-payers did not want 
to have their parish church excavated. Excavation 
meant weekly service regularly performed, and weekly 
service regularly performed would be followed by exac- 
tion of the full amount of rent-charge. Then, again, in 
the second place, should divine service be resumed in 
the church of S. Enodoc, the parishioners would feel a 
certain uneasiness in their consciences if they disre- 
garded the summons of the bell ; it might not be a very 
lively uneasiness, but just such an irritation as might be 
caused by a fly crawling over the face. So long as there 
was no service they could soothe their consciences with 
the thought that there was no call to make an effort to 


/iV" THE ROAR OP THE SEA. 


15 


pull on Sunday breeches and assume a Sunday hat, and 
trudge to the church. Therefore, secondly, for the ease 
of their own consciences, it was undesirable that S. Eno- 
doc should be dug out of the sand. 

Then lastly, and thirdly, the engulfment of the church 
gave them a cherished opportunity for being nasty to 
the rector, and retailing upon him for his incaution in 
condemning smuggling and launching out into anathema 
against wrecking. As he had made matters disagreeable 
to them — tried, as they put it, to take bread out of their 
mouths, they saw no reason why they should spend 
money to please him. 

Mr. Trevisa had made very little provision for his 
children, principally, if not wholly, because he could not. 
He had received from the farmers and land-owners a por- 
tion of tithe, and had been contented with that rather 
than raise angry feelings by demanding the whole. Out 
of that portion he was able to put aside but little. 

Aunt Dionysia arrived, a tall, bony woman, with hair 
turning gray, light eyes and an aquiline nose, a hard, 
self-seeking woman, who congratulated herself that she 
did not give way to feelings. 

“I feel,” said she, “as do others, but I don’t show my 
feelings as beggars expose their bad legs.” 

She went into the kitchen. “ Hoity toity ! ” she said 
to the cook, “ fine story this — scalding yourself. Mind 
this, you cook meals or no wage for you.” To J ane, “ The 
mischief you have done shall be valued and deducted 
from any little trifle my brother may have left you in his 
will. Where is Jamie ? Give me that joint of fishing- 
rod ; I’ll beat him for stealing raspberry jam.” 

Jamie, however, on catching a glimpse of his aunt had 
escaped into the garden and concealed himself. The 
cook, offended, began to clatter the saucepans. 

“ Now, then,” saiid Mrs. Trevisa — she bore the brevet- 
rank — “ in a house of mourning what do you mean by 
making this noise, it is impertinent to me.” 

The house-maid swung out of the kitchen, muttering. 

Mrs. Trevisa now betook herself up -stairs in quest of 
her niece, and found her with red eyes. 

“ I call it rank felo-de-se” said Aunt Dionysia. “ Every 
one knew — he knew, that he had a feeble heart, and ought 
not to be digging and delving in the old church. Who 
sent the sand upon it % Why, Providence, I presume. 


16 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Not man. Then it was a flying in the face of Providence 
to try to dig it out. Who wanted the church % He might 
have waited till the parishioners asked for it. But there 
— where is J amie % I shall teach him a lesson for steal- 
ing raspberry jam.” 

“ Oh, aunt, not now — not now ! ” 

Mrs. Trevisa considered a moment, then laid aside the 
fishing-rod. 

“ Perhaps you are right. I am not up to it after my 
walk from Pentyre Glaze. Now, then, what about mourn- 
ing ? I do not suppose Jamie can be measured by guess- 
work. You must bring him here. Tell him the whip- 
ping is put off till another day. Oi course you have seen 
to black things for yourself. Not ? W hy, gracious heav- 
ens ! is everything to be thrown on my shoulders ? Am 
I to be made a beast of burden of ? Now, no mewling 
and pewking. There is no time for that. Whatever 
your time may be, mim is valuable. I can’t be here for- 
ever. Of course every responsibility has been put on 
me. Just like Peter — no consideration. And what can 
I do with a set of babies ? I have to work hard enough 
to keep myself. Peter did not want my services at one 
time ; now I am put upon. Have you sent for the under- 
taker ? AVhat about clothing again ? I suppose you 
know that you must have mourning % Bless my heart ! 
what a lot of trouble you give me.” 

Mrs. Trevisa was in a very bad temper, which even the 
knowledge that it was seemly that she should veil it 
could not make her restrain. She was, no doubt, to a 
certain extent fond of her brother — not much, because he 
had not been of any advantage to her ; and no doubt she 
was shocked at his death, but chiefly because it entailed 
on herself responsibilities and trouble that she grudged. 
She would be obliged to do something for her nephew 
and niece ; she would have to provide a home for them 
somewhere. She could not take them with her to Cop- 
pinger’s house, as she was there as a salaried servant, 
and not entitled to invite thither her young relatives. 
Moreover, she did not want to have them near her. She 
disliked young people; they gave trouble, they had 
to be looked after, they entailed expenses. What was 
she to do with them ? Where was she to put them ? 
What would they have to live upon ? Would they call 
on her to part-maintain them ? Miss Dionysia had a 


/iY THE BOAR OF THE 8EA, 


17 


small sum put away, and slie had no intention of break- 
ing into it for them. It was a nest-egg, and was laid 
by against an evil day that might come on herself. She 
had put the money away for herself, in her old age, not 
for the children of her feeble brother and his lack-penny 
wife to consume as moth and rust. As these thoughts 
and questions passed through her mind. Aunt Dionysia 
pulled open drawers, examined cupboards, pried open 
closets, and searched chests and wardrobes. 

*‘I wonder now what he has put by for them,” she said 
aloud. 

“ Do you mean my dear papa ? ” asked Judith, whose 
troubled heart and shaken spirits were becoming angry 
and restless under the behavior of the hard, unfeeling 
woman. 

“ Yes, I do,” answered Mrs. Trevisa, facing round, and 
glaring malevolently at her niece. “It is early days to 
talk of this, but it must be done sooner or later, and if 
so, the sooner the better. There is money in the house, 
I suppose ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ I must know. You will want it — bills must be paid. 
You will eat and drink, I suppose ? You must be clothed. 
Ill tell you what : 111 put the whole case into the hands 
of Lawyer Jenkyns, and he shall demand arrears of tithes. 
I know what quixotish conduct Peter ” 

“ Aunt, I will not allow this.” A light flush came into 
the girl’s cheek. 

“It is all very well talking,” said Aunt Dionysia; 
“ but black is not white, and no power on earth can 
make me say that it is so. Money must be found. 
Money must be paid for expenses, and it is hard that 
I should have to find it ; so I think. What money is 
there in the house for present necessities ? I must 
know.” 

Suddenly a loud voice was heard shouting through 
the house — 

“ Mother Dunes ! old Dunes I want you.” 

Judith turned cold and white. Who was this that 
dared to bellow in the house of death, when her dear, 
dear father lay up -stairs with the blinds down, asleep ? 
It was an insult, an outrage. Her nerves had already 
been thrilled, and her heart roused into angry revolt by 
the cold, unfeeling conduct of the woman who was her 


18 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


sole relative in the world. And now, as she was thus 
quivering, there came this boisterous shout. ^ 

“It is the master!” said Mrs. Trevisa, in an awe- 
struck voice, lowered as much as was possible to her. 

To Coppinger alone she was submissive, cringing, ob- 
sequious. 

“ What does he mean by this — this conduct ? ” asked 
Judith, trembling with wrath. 

“ He wants me.” 

Again a shout. “ Dunes ! old fool I the keys ! ” 

Then Judith started forward, and went through the 
door to the head of the staircase. At the foot stood a 
middle-sized, strongly built, firmly knit man, in a dress 
half belonging to the land and half to the sea, with high 
boots on his legs, and slouched hat on his head. His 
complexion was olive, his hair abundant and black, cov- 
ering cheeks and chin and upper lip. His eyes were 
hard and dark. He had one brown hand on the bani- 
ster, and a foot on the first step, as though about to 
ascend, when arrested by seeing the girl at the head of 
the stairs before him. The house was low, and the 
steps led without a break directly from the hall to the 
landing which gave communication to the bedrooms. 
There was a skylight in the roof over the staircase, 
through which a brilliant flood of pure white light fell 
over Judith, whereas every window had been darkened 
by drawn blinds. The girl had found no sombre dress 
suitable to wear, and had been forced to assume the 
same white gown as the day before, but she had dis- 
carded the green sash and had bound a black ribbon 
about her waist, and another about her abundant hair. 
A black lace kerchief was drawn over her shoulders 
across her breast and tied at her back. She wore long, 
black mittens. 

Judith stood motionless, her bosom rising and falling 
quickly, her lips set, the breath racing through her 
nostrils, and one hand resting on the banister at the 
stair-head. 

In a moment her eyes met those of Coppinger, and 
it was at once as though a thrill of electric force had 
passed between them. 

He desisted from his attempt to ascend, and said, 
without moving his eyes from hers, in a subdued tone, 
“ She has taken the keys,” but he said no more. He 


m THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


19 


drew his foot from the step hesitatingly, and loosened 
his hand from the banister, down which went a thrill 
from Judith’s quivering nerves, and he stepped back. 

At the same moment she descended a step, still look- 
ing steadily into the dark, threatening pupils, with- 
out blinking or lowering her orbs. Emboldened by 
her boiling indigmition, she stood on the step she had 
reached with both feet hrmly planted there, and finding 
that the banister rattled under her hand she withdrew 
it, and folded her arins. Coppinger raised his hand to 
his head and took ofi* his hat. He had a profusion of 
dark, curly, flowing hair, that fell and encircled his 
saturnine face. 

Then Judith descended another step, and as she did 
so he retreated a step backwards. Behind him was the 
hall door, open ; the light lay wan and white there on 
the gravel, for no sunshine had succeeded the gale. At 
every step that Judith took down the stair Coppinger 
retreated. Neither spoke; the hall was still, save for 
the sound of their breath, and his came as fast as hers. 
When Judith had reached the bottom she turned — Cop- 
pinger stood in the doorway now — and signed to her 
aunt to come down with the keys. 

“Take them to him — Do not give them here — out- 
side.” 

Mrs. Trevisa, surprised, confounded, descended the 
stair, went by her, and out through the door. Then Ju- 
dith stepped after her, shut the door to exclude both 
Aunt Dionysia and that man Coppinger, who had dared, 
uninvited, on such a day to invade the house. 

She turned now to remount the stairs, but her 
strength failed her, her knees yielded, and she sank 
upon a step, and burst into a flood of tears and convul- 
sive sobs. 


CHAPTEK m 


CAPTAIN CBUEL. 

Captain Coppinger occupied an old farmhouse, roomy, 
low-built, granite quoined and mullioned, called Pen- 
tyre Glaze, in a slight dip of the hills near the cliffs 
above the thundering Atlantic. One ash shivered at the 
end of the house — that was the only tree to be seen near 
Pentyre Glaze. And — who was Coppinger 1 That is 
more than can be told. He had come — no one knew 
whence. His arrival on the north coast of Cornwall was 
mysterious. There had been haze over the sea for three 
days. When it lifted, a strange vessel of foreign rig 
was seen lying off the coast. Had she got there in the 
fog, not knowing her course ; or had she come there 
knowingly, and was making for the mouth of the Camel ? 
A boat was seen to leave the ship, and in it a man 
came ashore ; the boat returned to the vessel, that there- 
upon spread sail and disappeared in the fog that re- 
descended over the water. The man gave his name as 
Coppinger — his Christian name, he said, was Curll, and 
he was a Dane ; but though his intonation was not that 
of the Cornish, it was not foreign. He took up his resi- 
dence in S. Enodoc at a farm, and suddenly, to the sur- 
prise of every one, became by purchase the possessor of 
Pentyre Glaze, then vacant and for sale. Had he known 
that the estate was obtainable when he had come sud- 
denly out of the clouds into the place to secure it 1 No- 
body knew, and Coppinger was silent. 

Thenceforth Pentyre Glaze became the harbor and 
den of every lawless character along the coast. All 
kinds of wild uproar and reckless revelry appalled the 
neighborhood day and night. It was discovered that an 
organized band of smugglers, wreckers, and poachers 
made this house the centre of their operations, and that 
“Cruel Coppinger” was their captain. There were at 
that time— just a century ago — no resident magistrates 


J2V' THIS ROAR OF THE ^EA. 


21 


or g*entry in the immediate neighborhood. The yeomen 
were bribed, by kegs of spirits left at their doors, to 
acquiesce in a traffic in illicit goods, and in the matter 
of exchange they took their shares. It was said that on 
one occasion a preventive man named Ewan Wyvell, 
who had pursued Coppinger in his boat, was taken by 
him, and his head chopped off by the captain, with his 
boat axe, on the gunwale. Such was the story. It was 
never proved. Wyvell had disappeared, and the body 
was recovered headless on the Doom Bar. That violence 
had been used was undoubted, but who had committed 
the crime was not known, though suspicion pointed to 
Coppinger. Thenceforth none ever called him Curll ; 
by one consent he was named Cruel. In the West of 
England every one is given his Christian name. An old 
man is Uncle, and an old woman Aunt, and any one in 
command is a Captain. So Coppinger was known as 
Captain Cruel, or as Cruel Coppinger. 

Strange vessels were often seen appearing at regular 
intervals on the coast, and signals were flashed from the 
one window of Pentyre Glaze that looked out to sea. 

Among these vessels, one, a full -rigged schooner, soon 
became ominously conspicuous. She was for long the 
terror of the Cornish coast. Her name was The Black 
Prince. Once, with Coppinger on board, she led a rev- 
enue cutter into an intricate channel among the rocks, 
where, from knowledge of the bearings. The Black Prince 
escaped scathless, while the king’s vessel perished with 
all on board. 

Immunity increased Coppinger’s daring. There were 
certain bridle-roads along the fields over which he exer- 
cised exclusive control. He issued orders that no man 
should pass over them by night, and accordingly from 
that hour none ever did.* 

Moreover, if report spoke true — and reports do not 
arise without cause — Coppinger was not averse from tak- 
ing advantage, and that unlawful advantage, of a wreck. 
By ‘‘ lawful ” and unlawful ” two categories of acts are 
distinguished, not by the laws of the land but by com- 

* Many stories of Cruel Coppinger may be found in Hawker’s Foot- 
prints of Former Men in Cornwall. I have also told them in my 
Vicar of Morwenstow. I have ventured to translate the scene of 
Coppinger’s activity further west, from Wellcombe to S. Enodoc. But, 
indeed, he is told of in many places on this coast. 


22 


IN THE ROAR OF TEE SEA. 


mon consent of the Cornish conscience. That same 
Cornish conscience disting'uished wrecking* into two 
classes, as it distinguished then, and distinguishes still, 
witchcraft into two classes. The one, white witchcraft, is 
legitimate and profitable, and to be upheld ; the other, 
black witchcraft, is reprehensible, unlawful, and to be put 
down. So with wrecking. The Bristol Channel teemed 
with shipping, flights of white sails passed in the ofiing, 
and these vessels were, when inward bound, laden with 
sugars and spices from the Indies, or with spirits and 
wines from France. If outward bound they were deeiD 
in the water with a cargo of the riches of England. 

Now, should a gale siDring up suddenly and catch any 
of these vessels, and should the gale be — as it usually is, 
and to the Cornish folk, favorably is— from the north- 
west, then there was no harbor of refuge along that rock- 
bound coast, and a ship that could not make for the open 
was bound inevitably to be pounded to pieces against 
the precipitous walls of the peninsula. If such were the 
case, it was perfectly legitimate for every householder in 
the district to come down on the wreck and strip it of 
everything it contained. 

But, on the other hand, there was wrecking that was 
disapproved of, though practised by a few, so rumor 
said, and that consisted in luring a vessel that was in 
doubt as to her course, by false signals, upon a reef or 
bar, and then, having made a wreck of her, to pillage her. 
When on a morning after a night in which there had 
been no gale, a ship was found on the rocks, and picked 
as clean as the carcase of a camel in the desert, it was 
open to suspicion that this ship had not been driven 
there by wind or current ; and when the survivors, if they 
reached the shore, told that they had been led to steer in 
the direction where they had been cast away by certain 
lights that had wholly deceived them, then it was also 
open to suspicion that these lights had been purposely 
exhibited for the sake of bringing that vessel to destruc- 
tion ; and when, further, it was proved that a certain set 
or gang of men had garnered all the profits, or almost all 
the profits, that accrued from a wreck, before the coun- 
tryside was aware that a wreck had occurred, then it was 
certainly no very random conjecture that the wreck had 
been contrived in some fashion by those who profited l3y 
it. There were atrocious tales of murder of shipwrecked 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


23 


men circulating*, but these were probably wholly, or at 
all events in part, untrue. If when a vessel ran upon the 
rocks she was deserted by her crew, if they took to the 
boats and made for shore, then there remained no im- 
pediment to the wreckers taking* possession ; it was only 
in the event of their finding* a skipper on board to main- 
tain right over the grounded vessel, or the mariners still 
on her engaged in getting her off, that any temptation 
to violence could arise. But it was improbable that a 
crew would cling to a ship on such a coast when once 
she was on the breakers. It was a moral certainty that 
they would desert her, and leave the wreck to be pillaged 
by the rats from shore, without offer of resistance. The 
character of the coast- wreckers was known to seamen, 
or rather a legend full of horror circulated relative to 
their remorseless savagery. The fear of wreckers added 
to the fear of the sea would combine to drive a crew, to 
the last man, into the boats. Consequently, though it is 
possible that in some cases murder of castaway men may 
have occurred, such cases must have been most excep- 
tional. The wreckers were only too glad to build a 
golden bridge by which the wrecked might escape. 
Morally, without a question, those who lured a hapless 
merchantman upon the rocks were guilty of the deaths 
of those sailors who were upset in their boats in escap- 
ing from the vessel, or were dashed against the cliffs in 
their attempts to land, but there was no direct blood- 
guiltiness felt in such cases; and those who^ had reaped 
a harvest from the sea counted their gains individually, 
and made no estimate of the misery accruing thereby to 
others. 


CHAPTEK IV. 


H0P-0’-]VIY-THUMB. 

“ Listen to me,” said Judith. 

“Yes,.Ju!” 

The orphans were together in the room that had been 
their father’s, the room in which for some days he had 
lain with the blinds down, the atmosphere heavy with 
the perfume of flowers, and that indescribable, unmis- 
takable scent of death. Often, every day, almost every 
hour, had Judith stolen into the room while he lay there, 
to wonder with infinite reverence and admiration at the 
purity and dignity of the dead face. It was that of the 
dear, dear father, but sublimed beyond her imagination. 
All the old vacillation was gone, the expression of dis- 
tress and discouragement had passed away, and in their 
place had come a fixity and a calm, such as one sees in 
the busts of the ancient Eoman Caesars, but with a' 
superadded ethereality, if such a word can be used, 
that a piece of pagan statuary never reached. Marvel- 
lous, past finding out, it is that* death, which takes from 
man the spiritual element, should give to the mere clay 
a look of angelic spirituality, yet so it is — so it was with 
the dead Peter Trevisa; and Judith, Avith eyes filling. as 
fast as dried, stood, her hands folded, looking into his 
face, felt that she had never loved, never admired him 
half enough when he was alive. Life had been the sim- 
mer in which all the scum of trivialities, of infirmities, 
of sordidness had come to and shown itself on the sur- 
face. Now Death had cleared these all away, and in the 
peaceful face of the dead was seen the real man, the no- 
bility^ sanctity, delicacy that formed the texture of his 
soul, and which had impressed the very clay wrapped 
about that volatile essence. 

As long as the dear father’s body lay in the house 
Judith had not realized her utter desolation. But now 
the funeral was over, and she had returned with her 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 


25 


brother to the parsonage, to draw up the blinds, and let 
the light once more enter, and search out, and revivify 
the dead rooms. 

She was very pale, with reddened eyes, and looking 
more fragile and transparent than ever she did before, 
worn and exhausted by tearful, wakeful nights, and by 
days of alternating gusts of sorrow and busy prepara- 
tion for the funeral, of painful recollections of joyous 
days that were past, and of doubtful searchings into a 
future that was full of cloud. 

Her black frock served to enhance her pallor, and to 
make her look thinner, smaller than when in white or 
in color. 

She had taken her place in her father’s high-backed 
leather chair, studded thick with brass nails, the leather 
dulled and fretted by constant use, but the nail-heads 
burnished by the same treatment. 

Her brother was in the same chair with her ; both his 
arms were round her neck, and his head was on her 
shoulder. She had her right arm about his waist, her 
left was bowed, the elbow leaning on the chair arm, her 
hand folded inward, and her weary head rested on its 
back. 

The fine weather broken in upon by the gale had re- 
turned ; the sun shone in unhindered at the window, and 
blazed on the children’s hair ; the brass nails, polished 
by friction, twinkled as little suns, but were naught in 
lustre to the gorgeous red of the hair of the twins, for 
the first were but brass, and the other of living gold. 

Two more lonely beings could hardly be discovered on 
the face of the earth — at all events in the peninsula of 
Cornwall — but the sense of this loneliness was summed 
in the heart of Judith, and was there articulate ; Jamie 
was but dimly conscious of discomfort and bereavement. 
She knew what her father’s death entailed on her, or 
knew in part, and conjectured more. Had she been left 
absolutely alone in the world her condition would have 
been less difficult than it was actually, encumbered with 
her helpless brother. Swimming alone in the tossing 
sea, she might have struck out with confidence that she 
could keep her head above water, but it was quite other- 
wise when clinging to her was a poor, half-witted boy, 
incapable of doing anything to save himself, and all 
whose movements tended only to embarrass her. Not 


26 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


that she regretted for an instant having to care for 
Jamie, for she loved him with sisterly and motherly 
love combined, intensified in force by fusion ; if to her 
a future seemed inconceivable without Jamie, a future 
without him would be one without ambition, pleasure, 
or interest. 

The twin brother was very like her, with the same 
beautiful and abundant hair, delicate in build, and with 
the same refined face, but without the flashes of alter- 
nating mood that lightened and darkened her face. His 
had a searching, bewildered, distressed expression on it 
— the only expression it ever bore except when he was 
out of temper, and then it mirrored on its surface his 
inward ill-humor. His was an appealing face, a face 
that told of a spirit infantile, innocent, and ignorant, 
that would never grow stronger, but which could deteri- 
orate by loss of innocence — the only charge of which it. 
was capable. The boy had no inherent naughtiness in 
him, but was constantly falling into mischief through 
thoughtlessness, and he was difficult to manage because 
incapable of reasoning. 

What every one saw — that he never would be other 
than what he was — Judith would not admit. She ac- 
knowledged his inaptitude at his books, his frivolity, 
his restlessness, but believed that these were infirmities 
to be overcome, and that when overcome the boy would 
be as other boys are. 

Now these children — they were aged eighteen, but 
Jamie looked four years younger — sat in their father’s 
chair, clinging to each other, all in all to one another, 
for they had no one else to love and who loved them. 

“ Listen to me, Jamie.” 

“ Yes, Ju, I be ” 

“ Don’t say ‘ I be ’ — say ‘ I am.’ ” 

“Yes,Ju.” 

“ J amie, dear ! ” she drew her arm tighter about him ; 
her heart was bounding, and every beat caused her pain. 
“Jamie, dear, you know that, now dear papa is gone, 
and you will never see him in this world again, that ” 

“Yes, Ju.” 

“ That I have to look to you, my brother, to stand up 
for me like a man, to think and do for me as well as for 
yourself— a brave, stout, industrious fellow,” 

“Ye8,Ju,” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


27 


it. “ I am a grirl, and you will soon be a man, and must 
f work for both of us. You must earn the money, and I 
will spend it frugally as we both require it. Then we 
I shall be happy again, and dear papa in Paradise will be 
glad and smile on us. You will make an effort, will you 
not, J amie ? Hitherto you have been able to run about 
and play and squander your time, but now serious daj^s 
1 have come upon us, and you must fix your mind on work 
and determine — Jamie — mind, screw your heart to a 
strong determination to put away childish things and 
be a man, and a strength and a comfort to me.” 

He put up his lips to kiss her cheek, but could not 
reach it, as her head was leaning on her hand away from 
, him. 

“What are you fidgeting at, my dear?” she asked, 
without stirring, feeling his body restless under her arm. 
V “ A nail is coming out,” he answered, 
i; It was SO; whilst she had been speaking to him he 

i was working at one of the brass studs, and had loosened 
its bite in the chair. 

“ Oh, Jamie ! you are making work by thus drawing 
out a nail. Can you not help me a little, and reduce the 
amount one has to think of and do ? You have not been 
attending to what I said, and I was so much in earnest.” 
She spoke in a tone of discouragement, and the tone, 
more than the words, impressed the susceptible heart of 
1 the boy. He began to cry. 

I “ You are cross.” 

I “ I am not cross, my pet ; I am never cross with you, I 
I love you too dearly; but you try my patience some- 
l times, and just now I am overstrained — and then I did 
§ want to make you understand.” 

“ Now papa’s dead I’ll do no more lessons, shall I ? ” 
\ asked Jamie, coaxingly. 

( “ You must, indeed, and with me instead of papa.” 

f “ Not rosa, rosce ? ” 

i “ Yes, rosa roso3.'' 

Then he sulked. 

“ I don’t love you a bit. It is not fair. Papa is dead, 
so I ought not to have any more lessons. I hate rosa, 
rosce f ” He kicked the legs of the chair peevishly with 
his heels. As his sister said nothing, seemed to be in- 
attentive — for she was weary and dispirited— he slapped 
her cheek by raising his hand over his head. 


28 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


“ Wiiat, Jamie, strike me, your only friend ? ” 

Then he threw his arms round her again, and kissed 
her. “ I’ll love you ; only, Ju, say I am not to do rosa, 
V rosce I ” 

“How long have you been working at the first de- 
clension in the Latin grammar, Jamie ? ” 

He tried for an instant to think, gave up the effort, 
laid his head on her shoulder, and said : 

“I don’t know and don’t care. Say I am not to do 
rosa, rosce ! ” 

“ What ! not if papa wished it ? ” 

“ I hate the Latin grammar ! ” 

For a while both remained silent. Judith felt the 
tension to which her mind and nerves had been sub- 
jected, and lapsed momentarily into a condition of some- 
thing like unconsciousness, in which she was dimly 
sensible of a certain satisfaction rising out of the pause 
in thought and effort. The boy lay quiet, with his head 
on her shoulder, for a while, then withdrew his arms, 
folded his hands on his lap, and began to make a noise 
by compressing the air between the palms. 

“ There’s a finch out there going ‘ chink ! chink ! ’ and 
listen, Ju, I can make ‘ chink ! chink ! ’ too.” 

Judith recovered herself from her distraction, and 
said : 

“Never mind the finch now. Think of what I say. 
AVe shall have to leave this house.” 

“ AVhy ? ” 

“ Of course we must, sooner or later, and the sooner 
the better. It is no more ours.” 

“ Yes, it is ours. I have my rabbits here.” 

“ Now that papa is dead it is no longer ours.” 

“ It’s a wicked shame.” 

“ Not at all, Jamie. This house was given to papa for 
his life only ; now it will go to a new rector, and Aunt 
Dunes * is going to fetch us away to another house.” 

“ When ? ” 

“ To-day.” 

“ I won’t go,” said the boy. “ I swear I won’t.” 

“Hush, hush, Jamie! Don’t use such expressions. 
I do not know where you have picked them up. We 
paust go.” 

“ And my rabbits, are they to go too ? ” 

♦ Dunes is the short for Dionysia. 


JiV' THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


29 


“ The rabbits ? We’ll see about them. Aunt ” 

“ I hate Aunt Dunes ! ” 

“ You really must not call her that ; if she hears you 
she will be very ang-ry. And consider, she has been 
taking a great deal of trouble about us.” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ My dear, she is dear papa’s sister.” 

“ Why didn’t papa get a nicer sister — like you ? ” 

“ Because he had to take what God gave him.” 

The boy pouted, and began to kick his heels against 
the chair-legs once more. 

“ J amie, we must leave this house to-day. Aunt is 
coming to take us both away.” 

“ I won’t go.” 

“ But, Jamie, I am going, and the cook is going, and 
so is Jane.” 

“ Are cook and J ane coming with us ? ” 

‘‘ No, dear.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“We shall not want them. We cannot aiford to keep 
them any more, to pay their wages ; and then we shall 
not go into a house of our own. You must come with 
me, and be a joy and rest to me, dear Jamie.” 

She turned her head over, and leaned it on his head. 
The sun glowed in their mingled hair — all of one tinge 
and lustre. It sparkled in the tears on her cheek. 

“ Ju, may I have these buttons ? ” 

“ What buttons ? ” 

“ Look ! ” 

He shook himself free from his sister, slid his feet to 
the ground, went to a bureau, and brought to his sister 
a large open basket that had been standing on the top 
of the bureau. It had been turned out of a closet by 
Aunt Dionysia, and contained an accumulation of those 
most profitless of collected remnants — odd buttons, coat 
buttons, brass, smoked mother-of-pearl, shirt buttons, 
steel clasps — buttons of all kinds, the gathering together 
made during twenty-five years. Why the basket, after 
having been turned out of a lumber-closet, had been left 
in the room of death, or why, if turned out elsewhere, it 
had been brought there, is more than even the novelist 
can tell. Suffice it that there it was, and by whom put 
there could not be said. 

“ Oh I what a store of pretty buttons ! ” exclaimed the 


30 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


boy. “Do look, Ju, these great big ones are just like 
those on Cheap Jack’s red waistcoat. Here is a brass one 
with a horse on it. Do see ! • Oh, J u, please get your 
needle and thread and sew this one on to my black 
dress.” 

Judith sighed. It was in vain for her to impress the 
realities of the situation on his wandering mind. 

“ Hark ! ” she exclaimed. “ There is Aunt Dunes. I 
hear her voice — how loud she speaks ! She has come to 
fetch us away.” 

“ Where is she going to take us to ? ” 

“I do not know, Jamie.” 

“ She will take us into the forest and lose us, like as 
did Hop-o’-my-Thumb’s father.” 

“ There are no forests here — hardly any trees.” 

“ She will leave us in the forest and run away. 

“ Nonsense, Jamie ! ” 

“ I am sure she will. She doesn’t like us. She wants 
to get rid of us. I don’t care. May I have the basket of 
buttons % ” 

"Vpa .Tatyiip 

“Then I’ll be Hop-o’-my-Thumb.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE BUTTONS. 

It was as Judith surmised. Mrs. Dionysia Trevisa 
had come to remove her nephew and niece from the 
rectory. She was a woman decided in character, espe- 
cially in all that concerned her interests. She had made 
up her mind that the children could not be left unpro- 
tected in the parsonage, and she could not be with them. 
Therefore they must go. The servants must leave ; they 
would be paid their month’s wage, but by dismissing 
them their keep would be economized. There was a 
factotum living in a cottage near, who did the garden- 
ing, the cinder-sifting, and boot-cleaning for the rectory 
inmates, he would look after the empty house, and wait 
on in hopes of being engaged to garden, sift cinders, and 
clean boots for the new rector. 

As it was settled that the children must leave the 
house, the next thing to consider was where they were 
to be placed. The aunt could not take them to Pentyre 
Glaze ; that was not to be thought of. They must be 
disposed of in some other way. 

Mrs. Trevisa had determined on a sale of her brother’s 
effects : his furniture, bedding, curtains, carpets, books, 
plate, and old sermons. She was anxious to realize as 
soon as possible, so as to know for certain what she 
could calculate upon as being left her for the support of 
Judith and her brother. To herself the rector had left 
only a ring and five guineas. She had not expected 
more. His decease was not likely to be a benefit, but, 
on the contrary, an embarrassment to her. He had left 
about a thousand pounds, but then Mrs. Trevisa did not 
yet know how large a bite out of this thousand pounds 
would be taken by the dilapidations on rectory, glebe, 
and chancel. The chancel of the church was in that con- 
tion that it afforded a wide margin for the adjudication 
of dilapidations. They might be set down at ten shil- 


32 


m THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 


lings or a thousand pounds, and no one could say which 
was the fairest sum, as the chancel was deep in sand and 
invisible. The imagination of the valuer might declare 
it to be sound or to be rotten, and till dug out no one 
could impeach his judgment. 

In those days, when an incumbent died, the widow and 
orphans of the deceased appointed a valuer, and the in- 
coming rector nominated his valuer, and these two cor- 
morants looked each other in the eyes — said to each 
other, “ Brother, what pickings ? ” And as less resistance 
to being lacerated and cleaned to the bone was to be an- 
ticipated from broken-hearted widow and helpless chil- 
dren than from a robust, red-faced rector, the cormorants 
contrived to rob the widow and the fatherless. Then that 
cormorant who had been paid to look after the interest of 
the widow and children and had not done it said to the 
other cormorant, “Brother, I’ve done you a turn this 
time ; do me the like when the chance falls to you.” Now, 
although nominally the money picked off the sufferers was 
to go to the account of the incomer, it was not allowed 
to pass till the cormorants had taken toll of it. More- 
over, these cormorants were architects, builders, solici- 
tors, or contractors of some sort, and looked to get some- 
thing further out of the incoming man they favored, 
whereas they knew they could get nothing at all out of 
the departed man who was buried. Now we have pre- 
tended to change all this ; let us persuade ourselves we 
have made the conduct of these matters more honest and 
just. 

Aunt Dionysia did not know by experience what 
valuers for dilapidations were, but she had always heard 
that valuation for dilapidations materially diminished 
the property of a deceased incumbent. She was conse- 
quently uneasy, and anxious to know the worst, and 
make the best of the circumstances that she could. She 
saw clearly enough that the sum that would remain 
when debts and valuation were paid would be insufficient 
to support the orphans, and she saw also with painful 
clearness that there would be a necessity for her to sup- 
plement their reduced income from her own earnings. 
This conviction did not sweeten her temper and increase 
the cordiality with which she treated her nephew and 
niece. 

“Now, hoity-toity I ” said Aunt Dionysia j “I’m not 


IN THE BOAh 3F THE SEA. 


3 £ 

one of your mewlers and pewkers. I have my work to 
do, and can’t afford to waste time in the luxury of tears. 
You children shall come with me. I will see you settled 
in, and then Balhachet shall wheel over your boxes and 
whatever we want for the night. I have been away from 
my duties longer than I ought, and the maids are run- 
ning wild, are after every one who comes near the place 
like horse-flies round the cattle on a sultry day. I will 
see you to your quarters, and then you must shift for 
yourselves. Balhachet can come and go between the 
rectory and Zachie Menaida as much as you want.” 

“ Are we going to Mr. Menaida’s, aunt ” asked 
Judith. 

“ Did I not say Zachie Menaida ! If I said Zachie 
Menaida I suppose I meant what I said, or are you hard 
of hearing ? Come — time to me is precious. Bustle — 
bustle — don’t keep me waiting while you gape.” 

After a while Mrs. Trevisa succeeded in getting her 
nephew and niece to start. Judith, indeed, was ready at 
the first suggestion to go with her aunt, glad to get over 
the pang of leaving the house as quickly as might be. 
It was to be the rupture of one thread of the tie that 
bound her to the past, but an important thread. She was 
to leave the house as a home, though she would return 
to it again and again to carry away from it such of her 
possessions as she required and could find a place for at 
Zachary Menaida’s. But with Jamie it was otherwise. He 
had run away, and had to be sought, and when found 
coaxed and cajoled into following his aunt and sister. 

Judith had found him, for she knew his nooks and 
dens. He was seated in a laurel-bush playing with the 
buttons. 

“ Look, Ju ! there is some broken mirror among the 
buttons. Stand still, and I will make the sun jump into 
your eyes. Open your mouth, and I will send him down 
your throat. Won’t it be fun ; I’ll tease old Dunes with 

it.” 

“ Then come along with me.” 

He obeyed. 

The distance to Zachary Menaida’s cottage was about 
a mile and a quarter, partly through parish roads, 
partly through lanes, the way in parts walled and 
hedged up against the winds, in others completely ex- 
posed to every breath of air where it traversed a down. 


34 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Judith walked forward with her aunt, and Jamie 
lagged. Occasionally his sister turned her head to re- 
assure herself that h'e had not given them the slip ; 
otherwise she attended as closely as she was able to the 
instructions and exhortations of her aunt. She and her 
brother were to be lodged temporarily at Uncle Zachie’s, 
that is to say, with Mr. Menaida, an elderly, somewhat 
eccentric man, who occupied a double cottage at the 
the little hamlet of Polzeath. No final arrangement as 
to the destination of the orphans could be made till 
Aunt Dunes knew the result of the sale, and how much 
remained to the children after the father’s trifling debts 
had been paid, and the considerable slice had been cut 
out of it by the valuers for dilapidations. Mrs. Trevisa 
talked fast in her harsh tones, and in a loud voice, with- 
out undulation or softness in it, and exiDected her niece 
to hear and give account for everything she told her, 
goading her to attention with a sharp reminder when 
she deemed that her mind was relaxed, and whipping 
her thoughts together when she found them wandering. 
But, indeed, it was not possible to forget for one mo- 
ment the presence and personality of Dionysia, though 
the subject of her discourse might be unnoticed. 

Every fibre of Judith’s heart was strung and strained 
to the uttermost, to acutest feeling, and a symiDathetic 
hand drawn across them would have produced a soft, 
thrilling, musical wail. Her bosom w^as so full to over- 
flow that a single word of kindness, a look even that told 
of love, would have sufficed to make the child cast her- 
self in a convulsion of grief into her aunt’s arms, bury 
her face in her bosom, and w^eep out her pent-up tears. 
Then, after perhaps half an hour, she w^ould have looked 
up through the rain into her aunt’s face, and have 
smiled, and have loved that aunt passionately, self-sac- 
rificingly, to her dying day. She was disposed to love 
her — for was not Dionysia the only relative she had ; 
and was she not the very sister of that father who had 
been to her so much? But Mrs. Trevisa w^as not the 
woman to touch the taught cords with a light hand, or 
to speak or look in love. She was hard, angular, un- 
sympathetic; and her manner, the intonations of her 
voice, her mode of address, the very movements of her 
body, acted on the strained nerves as a rasping file, that 
would fret till it had torn them through. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


35 


Suddenly round a corner, where the narrow road 
turned, two hundred yards ahead, dashed a rider on a 
b^ck steed, and Judith immediately recognized Cop- 
pinger on his famous mare Black Bess ; a mare much 
talked of, named after the horse ridden by Dick Turpin. 
The recognition was mutual. He knew her instantly ; 
with a jerk of the rein and a set of the brow she showed 
that he was not indifferent. 

Coppinger wore his slouched hat, tied under his chin 
and beard, a necessary precaution in that gale-swept coun- 
try ; on his feet to his knees were high boots. He wore 
a blue knitted jersey, and a red kerchief about his throat 

Captain Cruel slightly slackened his pace, as the lane 
was narrow ; and as he rode past his dark brow was 
knit, and his eyes flashed angrily at Judith. He deigned 
neither a glance nor a word to his housekeeper, who 
courtesied and assumed a fawning expression. 

When he had passed the two women he dug his spurs 
into Black Bess and muttered some words they did not 
hear. 

Judith, who had stood aside, now came forward into 
the midst of the roadway and rejoined her aunt, who 
began to say something, when her words and Judith’s 
attention was arrested by shouts, oaths, and cries in 
their rear. 

Judith and her aunt turned to discover the occasion of 
this disturbance, and saw that Coppinger was off his 
horse, on his feet, dragging the brute by the rein, and 
was hurling his crop, or hunting-whip, as he pursued 
Jamie flying from him with cries of terror. But that 
he held the horse and could not keep up with the boy, 
Jamie would have suffered severely, for Coppinger was 
in a livid fury. 

Jamie flew to his sister. 

“ Save me, Ju ! he wants to kill me.” 

“ What have you done ? ” 

“ It is only the buttons.” 

“Buttons, dear?” 

But the boy was too frightened to explain. 

Then Judith drew her brother behind her, took from 
him the basket he was carrying, and stepped to en- 
counter the angry man, who came on, now struggling 
with his horse, cursing Bess because she drew back, 
then plunging forward with his whip above his head 


36 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


brandlslied menacingly, and by this conduct further 
alarmed Black Bess. 

Judith met Coppinger, and he was forced to stay his 
forward course. 

. “ What has he done ? ” asked the girl. “ Why do you 
threaten ? ” 

“ The cursed idiot has strewn bits of glass and buttons 
along the road,” answered the Captain, angrily. “ Stand 
aside that I may lash him, and teach him to frighten 
horses and endanger men’s lives.” 

“ I am sorry for what Jamie has done. I will pick up 
the things he has thrown down.” 

Cruel Coppinger’s eyes glistened with wrath. He 
gathered the lash of his whip into his palm along with 
the handle, and gripped them passionately. 

“ Curse the fool ! My Bess was frightened, dashed up 
the bank, and all but rolled over. Do you know he 
might have killed me ? ” ^ 

“ You must excuse him ; he is a very child.” 

“ I will not excuse him. I will cut the flesh off his 
back if I catch him.” 

He put the end of the crop handle into his mouth, 
and, putting his right hand behind him, gathered the 
reins up shorter and wound them more securely about 
his left hand. 

Judith walked backward, facing him, and he turned 
with his horse and went after her. She stooped and 
gathered up a splinter of glass. The sun striking 
through the gaps in the hedge had flashed on these 
scraps of broken mirror and of white bone, or burnished 
brass buttons, and the horse had been frightened at 
them. As Judith stooped and took up now a buckle, 
then a button, and then some other shining trifle, she 
hardly for an instant withdrew her eyes from Coppinger ; 
they had in them the same dauntless defiance as when 
she encountered him on the stairs of the rectory. But 
now it was she who retreated, step by step, and he who 
advanced, and yet he could not flatter himself that he 
was repelling her. She maintained her strength and 
mastery unbroken as she retreated. 

“ Why do you look at me so ? Why do you walk back- 
ward ” 

“ Because I mistrust you. I do not know what you 
might do were I not to confront you.” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 37 

“ What' I mig'ht do ? What do you think I would 
do ? ” 

“ I cannot tell. I mistrust you.” 

“ Do you think me capable of lashing at you with my 
crop % ” 

“ I think you capable of anything.” 

“ Flattering that ! ” he shouted, angrily. 

“ You would have lashed at Jamie.” 

“ And why not ? He might have killed me.” 

“ He might have killed you, but you should not have 
touched him — not have thought of touching him.” 

“ Indeed ! Why not ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” ^ She raised herself upright and looked 
straight into his eyes, in which fire dickered, flared, 
then decayed, then flared again. 

“ You are no Dane, or you would not have asked ‘ Why 
not % ’ twice. Nay, you would not have asked it once.” 

“ Not a Dane ? ” His beard and mustache were 
quivering, and he snorted with anger. 

“ A Dane, I have read in history, is too noble and brave 
to threaten women and to strike children.” 

He uttered an oath and ground his teeth. 

“ No ; a Dane would never have thought of asking 
why not ? — why not lash a poor little silly boy % ” 

“ You insult me ! You dare to do it ” 

Her blood was surging in her heart. As she looked 
into this man’s dark and evil face she thought of all the 
distress he had caused her father, and a wave of loathing 
swept over her, nerved her to defy him to the uttermost, 
and to proclaim all the counts she had against him. 

“ I dare do it,” she said, “ because you made my own 
dear papa’s life full of bitterness and pain ” 

“ I ! I never touched him, hardly spoke to him. I 
don’t care to have to do with parsons.” 

“ You made his life one of sorrow through your god- 
less, lawless ways, leading his poor flock astray, and bid- 
ding them mock at his warnings and despise his teach- 
ings. Almost with his last breath he spoke of you, and 
the wretchedness of heart you had caused him. And then 
you dared — yes — you dared — you dared to burst into our 
house where he lay dead, with shameful insolence to dis- 
turb its peace. And now — ” she gasped, “and now, ah! 
you lie when you say you are a Dane, and talk of cutting 
and lashing the dead father’s little boy on his father’s 


38 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


burial day. You are but one thing I can name — a cow- 
ard ! ” 

Did he mean it ? No ! But blinded, stung to mad- 
ness by her words, especially that last, he raised his 
right arm with the crop. 

Did she mean it? No! But in the instinct of self- 
preservation, thinking he was about to strike her, she 
dashed the basket of buttons in his face, and they flew 
right and left over him, against the head of Black Bess, 
a rain of fragments of mirror, brass, steel, mother-of- 
pearl, and bone. 

The effect was instantaneous. The mare plunged, 
reared, threw Cdppinger backward from off his feet, 
dashed him to the ground, dragged him this way, that 
way, bounded, still drawing him about by the twisted 
reins, into the hedge, then back, with her hoofs upon 
him, near, if not on, his head, his chest — then, released 
by the snap of the rein, or through its becoming disen- 
gaged, Bess darted down the lane, was again brought 
a standstill by the glittering fragments on the ground, 
turned, rushed back in the direction whence she had 
come, and disappeared. 

Judith stood panting, paralyzed with fear and dismay. 
Was he dead, broken to pieces, pounded by those strong 
hoofs ? 

He was not dead. He was rolling himself on the 
ground, struggling clumsily to his knees. 

“ Are you satisfied ? ” he shouted, glaring at her like 
a wild beast through his tangled black hair that had 
fallen over his face. “ I cannot strike you nor your 
brother now. My arm and the Lord knows what other 
bones are broken. You have done that— and I owe you 
something for it.” 


CHAPTEK YI. 


UNCLE ZACHIE. 

The astonishment, the consternation of Mrs. Trevisa 
at what had occurred, which she could not fully compre- 
hend, took from her the power to speak. She had seen 
her niece in conversation with Cruel Coppinger, and had 
caught snatches of what had passed between them. All 
his words had reached her, and some of Judith’s. When, 
suddenly, she saw the girl dash the basket of buttons in 
the face of the Captain, saw him thrown to the ground, 
drawn about by his frantic horse, and left, as she thought, 
half dead, her dismay was unbounded. It might have 
been that Coppinger threatened Judith with his whijD, 
but nothing could excuse her temerity in resisting him, 
in resisting him and protecting herself in the way she 
did. The consequences of that resistance she could not 
measure. Coppinger was bruised, bones were broken, 
and Aunt Dionysia knew the nature of the man too well 
not to expect his deadly animosity, and to feel sure of 
implacable revenge against the girl who had injured him 
— a revenge that would envelop all who belonged to her, 
and would therefore strike herself. 

The elderly spinster had naturally plenty of strength 
and hardness that would bear her through most shocks 
without discomposure, but such an incident as that which 
had just taken place before her eyes entirely unnerved 
and dismayed her. 

Coppinger was conveyed home by men called to the 
spot, and Mrs. Trevisa walked on with her niece and 
nephew in silence to the house of Mr. Zachary Menaida. 
Jamie had escaped over the hedge, to put a stone-and- 
earth barrier between himself and his assailant directly 
Judith interposed between him and Coppinger. Now 
that the latter was gone, he came, laughing, over the 
hedge again. To him what had occurred was fun. 

At Menaida’s the aunt departed, leaving her nephew 


40 


IJSr THE BOAR OF TEE SEA, 


and niece with the old man, that she might hurry to 
Pentyre Glaze and provide what was needed for Coppin- 
ger. She took no leave of Judith. In the haze of ap- 
prehension that enveloped her mind glowed anger against 
the girl for having increased her difSculties and jeopard- 
ized her position with Coppinger. 

Mr. Zachary Menaida was an old man, or rather a man 
who had passed middle age, with grizzled hair that 
stood up above his brow, projecting like the beak of a 
ship or the horn of an unicorn. He had a big nose in- 
clined to redness, and kindly, watery eyes, was close 
shaven, and had lips that, whenever he was in per- 
plexity, or worried with work or thought, he thrust for- 
ward and curled. He was a middle-statured man, inclined 
to stoop. 

Uncle Zachie, as he was commonly called behind his 
back, was a gentleman by birth. In the Homan Catholic 
Church there is a religious order called that of Minims. 
In England we have, perhaps, the most widely-diffused 
of orders, not confined to religion — it is that of Crotchets. 
To this order Mr. Menaida certainly belonged. He was 
made up of hobbies and prejudices that might bore, but 
never hurt others. 

Probably the most difficult achievement one can con- 
ceive for a man to execute is to stand in his own light ; 
yet Mr. Menaida had succeeded in doing this all through 
his life. In the first place, he had been bred up for the 
law, but had never applied himself to the duties of the 
profession to which he had been articled. As he had 
manifested as a boy a love of music, his mother and sis- 
ter had endeavored to make him learn to play on an in- 
strument; but, because so urged, he had refused to 
qualify himself to play on pianoforte, violin, or flute, 
till his fingers had stiffened, whereupon he set to work 
zealously to practise, when it was no longer possible for 
him to acquire even tolerable proficiency. 

As he had been set by his father to work on skins of 
parchment, he turned his mind to skins of another sort, 
and became an eager naturalist and taxidermist. 

That he had genius, or rather a few scattered sparks 
of talent in his muddled brain, was certain. Every one 
who knew him said he was clever, but pitied his inability 
to turn his cleverness to purpose. But one must take 
into consideration, before accepting the general verdict 


Ili THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


41 


that he was clever, the intellectual abilities of those who 
formed this judgment. ^ When we do this, we doubt much 
whether their opinion is worth much. Mr. Menaida was 
not clever. He had flashes of wit, no steady light of 
understanding. Above all, he had no application, a little 
of which might have made him a useful member of so- 
ciety. 

When his articleship was over he set up as a solicitor, 
but what business was offered him he neglected or mis- 
managed, till business ceased to be offered. He would 
have starved had not a small annuity of fifty pounds 
been left him to keep the wolf from the door, and that 
he was able to supplement this small income with money 
made by the sale of his stuffed specimens of sea-fowl. 
Taxidermy was the only art in which he was able to do 
anything profitable. He loved to observe the birds, to 
wander on the cliffs listening to their cries, watching 
their flight, their positions when at rest, the undula- 
tions in their feathers under the movement of the mus- 
cles as they turned their heads or raised their feet ; and 
when he set himself to stuff the skins he was able to imi- 
tate the postures and appearance of living birds with rare 
fldelity. Consequently his specimens were in request, 
and ornithologists and country gentlemen whose game- 
keepers had shot rare birds desired to have the skins 
dealt with, and set in cases, by the dexterous fingers of 
Mr. Zachary Menaida. He might have done more work 
of the same kind, but that his ingrained inactivity and 
distaste for work limited his output. In certain cases 
Mr. Menaida would not do what was desired of him till 
coaxed and flattered, and then he did it grumblingly and 
with sighs at being subjected to killing toil. 

Mr. Menaida was a widower ; his married life had not 
been long ; he had been left with a son, now grown to 
manhood, who was no longer at home. He was abroad, 
in Portugal, in the service of a Bristol merchant, an im- 
porter of wines. 

As already said. Uncle Zachie did not begin the drudg- 
ery of music till it was too late for him to acquire skill 
on any instrument. His passion for music grew with 
his inability to give himself pleasure from it. He oc- 
cupied a double cottage at Polzeath, and a hole knocked 
through the wall that had separated the lower rooms 
enabled him ^o keep his piano in one room and his bird- 


42 


m THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


stuffing apparatus in the other, and to run from one to 
the other in his favorite desultory way, that never per- 
mitted him to stick to one thing at a time. 

Into this house Judith and her brother were intro- 
duced. Mr. Menaida had been attached to the late rec- 
tor, the only other gentleman in culture, as in birth, that 
lived in the place, and when he was told by Miss — or, as 
she was usually called, Mrs. — Trevisa that the children 
must leave the parsonage and be put temporarily with 
some one suitable, and that no other suitable house was 
available, he consented without making much objection 
to receive them into his cottage. He was a kindly man, 
gentle at heart, and he was touched at the bereavement 
of the children whom he had known since they were in- 
fants. 

After the first salutation Mr. Menaida led Judith and 
the boy into his parlor, the room opening out of his 
workshop. 

“ Look here,” said he, “ what is that ? ” He pointed to 
his piano. 

“A piano, sir,” answered Judith. 

“Yes — and mind you, I hate strumming, though I 
love music. When I am in, engaged at my labors, no 
strumming. I come in here now and then as relaxation, 
and run over this and that ; then, refreshed, go back to 
my work, but, if there is any strumming, I shall be put 
out. I shall run my knife or needle into my hand, and it 
will upset me for the day. You understand — no strum- 
ming. When I am out, then you may touch the keys, 
but only when I am out. You understand clearly ? Say 
the words after me: ‘ I allow no strumming.’ ” 

Judith did as required. The same was exacted of 
Jamie. Then Mr. Menaida said — 

“ Yery well ; now we shall have a dish of tea. I dare- 
say you are tired. Dear me, you look so. Goodness 
bless me ! indeed you do. What has tired you has been 
the trial you have gone through. Poor things, poor 
things ! There, go to your rooms ; my maid. Jump, will 
show you where they are, and I will see about making tea. 
It will do you good. You want it. I see it.” 

The kind-hearted man ran about. 

“ Bless my soul ! where have I put the key of the 
caddy ? And — really — my fingers are all over arsenical 
soap. I think I will leave Jump to make the iaa. Jump, 


IN' THE HOAR OF THE SEA 


43 


have you seen where I put the key ? Bless my soul ! 
where did I have it last ? Never mind ; I will break 
open the caddy.” 

“ Please, Mr. Menaida, do not do that for us. We can 
very well wait till the key is found.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know when that will be. I shall have 
forgotten about it if I do not find the key at once, or 
break open the caddy. But, if you prefer it, I have 
some cherry-brandy, or I would give you some milk- 
punch.” 

“ No — no, indeed, Mr. Menaida.” 

“ But Jamie — I am sure he looks tired. A little cherry- 
brandy to draw the threads in him together. And suffer 
me, though not a doctor, to recommend it to you. Bless 
my soul ! my fingers are all over arsenical soap. If I 
don’t have some cherry -brandy myself I shall have the 
arsenic get into my system. I hope you have no cuts or 
scratches on your hand. I forgot the arsenic when I 
shook hands with you. Now, look here. Jump, bring in 
the saffron cake, and I will cut them each a good hunch. 
It will do you good, on my word it will. I have not 
spared either figs or saffron, and then — I will help you, 
as I love you. Come and see my birds. That is a cor- 
morant— a splendid fellow — looks as if run out of metal, 
all his plumage, you know, and in the attitude as if swal- 
lowing a fish. Do you see 1 — the morsel is going down 
his throat. And— how much luggage have you ? Jump ! 
show the young lady where she can put away her gowns 
and all that sort of thing. Oh, not come yet % All right 
— a lady and her dresses are not long parted. They will 
be here soon. Now, then. What will you have ?— some 
cold beef— and cider ? Upon my soul !— you must ex- 
cuse me. I was just wiring that kittiwake. Excuse 
me — I shall be ready in a moment. In the meantime 
there are books — Eollin’s ‘Ancient History,’ a very 
reliable book. No— upon my word, my mind is dis- 
tracted. I cannot get that kittiwake right without a 
glass of port. I have some good port. Oliver guaran- 
tees it— from Portugal, you know. He is there— first- 
rate business, and will make his fortune, which is more 
than his father ever did.” 

Mr. Menaida went to a closet, and produced a bottle. 

• “ Come here, Jamie. I know what is good for you.” 

“ No— please, Mr. Menaida, do not. He has not 


u 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


been accustomed to anything of the sort. Please not, 
sir.” 

“ Pudge ! ” said Uncle Zachie, holding up a glass and 
pouring cherry-brandy into it. “ What is your age ? — 
seventeen or eighteen, and I am fifty -two. I have over 
thirty years’ more experience of the world than you. 
Jamie, don’t be tied to your sister’s apron-string. 1 
know what is best for you. Girls drink water, men 
something better. Come here, Jamie ! ” 

“No, sir — I beseech you.” 

“ Bless my soul ! I know what is good for him. 
Come to me, Jamie. Look the other way, Judith, if I 
cannot persuade you.” 

Judith sighed, and covered her face with her hands. 
There was to be no help, no support in Uncle Zachie. 
On the contrary, he would break down her power over 
Jamie. 

“Jamie,” she said, “if you love me, go up-stairs.” 

“ Presently, Ju. I want that first.” And he took it, 
ran to his sister, and said : 

“ It is good, Ju ! ” 

“ You have disobeyed me, Jamie — that is bad.” 

She stood on the threshold of further trouble, and she 
knew it. 


CHAPTEK YU. 


A visrr. 

No sleep visited Judith’s eyes that night till the first 
streaks of dawn appeared, though she was weary, and 
her frail body and over-exerted brain needed the refresh- 
ment of sleep. But sleep she could not, for cares were 
gathering upon her. 

She had often heard her father, when speaking of Mr. 
Menaida, lament that he was not a little more self-con- 
trolled in his drinking. It was not that the old fellow 
ever became inebriated, but that he hankered after the 
bottle, and was wont to take a nip continually to strength- 
en his nerves, steady his hand, or clear his brain. 
There was ever ready some excuse satisfactory to his 
own conscience ; and it was due to these incessant ap- 
j)lications to the bottle that his hand shook, his eyes be- 
came watery, and his nose red. It was a danger Judith 
must guard against, lest this trick should be picked up 
by the childish Jamie, always apt to imitate what he 
should not, and acquire habits easily gained, hardly 
broken, that were harmful to himself. Uncle Zachie, in 
his good-nature, would lead the boy after him into the 
same habits that marred his own life. 

This was one thought that worked like a mole all 
night in Judith’s brain ; but she had other troubles as 
well to keep her awake. She was alarmed at the conse- 
quences of her conduct in the lane. She wondered 
whether Coppinger were more seriously hurt than had 
at first appeared. She asked herself whether she had 
not acted wrongly when she acted inconsiderately, 
whether in her precipitation to protect herself she had 
not misjudged Coppinger, whether, if he had attempted 
to strike her, it Tvould not have been a lesser evil to re- 
ceive the blow, than to ward it off in such a manner as 
to break his bones. Knowing by report the character 
of the mah, she feared that she had incurred his deadly 


46 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


animosity. He could not, that she could see, hurt her- 
self in the execution of his resentment, but he might 
turn her aunt out of his house. That she had afironted 
Tier aunt she was aware ; Mrs. Trevisa’s manner in i^art- 
ing with her had shown that with sufficient plainness. 

A strange jumble of sounds on the piano startled Ju- 
dith. Her first thought and fear were that her brother 
had gone to the instrument, and was amusing himself 
on the keys. But on listening attentively she was 
aware that there was sufficient sequence in the notes to 
make it certain that the performer was a musician, 
though lacking in facility of execution. She descended 
the stairs and entered the little sitting-room. Uncle 
Zachie was seated on the music-stool, and was endeavor- 
ing to play a sonata of Beethoven that was vastly be- 
yond the capacity of his stiff- jointed fingers. Whenever 
he made a false note he uttered a little grunt and 
screwed up his eyes, endeavored to play the l3ar again, 
and perhaps accomplish it only to break down in the 
next. 

Judith did not venture to interrupt him. She took up 
some knitting, and seated herself near the piano, where 
he might see her without her disturbing him. He 
raised his brows, grunted, floundered into false harmony, 
and exclaimed, “ Bless me ! how badly they do print mu- 
sic nowadays. Who, without the miraculous powers of 
a prophet, could tell that B should be natural ? ” Then, 
turning his head over his shoulder, addressed Judith, 
“ Good-morning, missie. Are you fond of music ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, sir, very.” 

“ So you think. Everyone says he or she is fond of 
music, because that person can hammer out a psalm 
tune or play the ‘ Eogue’s March.’ I hate to hear those 
who call themselves musical strum on a piano. They 
can’t feel, they only execute.” 

“ But they can play their notes correctly,” said Judith, 
and then flushed with vexation at having made this 
pointed and cutting remark. But it did not cause Mr. 
Menaida to wince. 

“ What of that ? I give not a thank-you for mere 
literal music-reading. Call Jump, set ‘ Shakespeare ’ 
before her, and she will hammer out a scene — correctly 
as to words ; but where is the sense “? Where the life ? 
You must play with the spirit and play with the under- 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


47 


standing also, as you must read with the spirit and read 
with the understanding* also. It is the same thing* with 
bird-stuffing*. Any fool can ram tow into a skin and 
thrust wires into the neck, but what is the result ? 
You must stuff birds with the spirit and stuff with the 
understanding also — or it is naught.” 

“ I suppose it is the same with everything one does — 
one must do it heartily and intelligently.” 

“ Exactly ! Now you should see my boy, Oliver. 
Have you ever met him ? ” 

“ I think I have ; but, to be truthful, I do not recol- 
lect him, sir.” 

“I will bring you his likeness — in miniature. It is 
in the next room.” Up jumped Mr. Menaida, and ran 
through the opening in the wall, and returned in another 
moment with the portrait, and gave it into Judith’s 
hands. 

“ A fine fellow is Oliver ! Look at his nose how 
straight it is. Not like mine — that is a pump-handle. 
He got his good looks from his mother, not from me. 
Ah ! ” He reseated himself at the piano, and ran — in- 
correctly — over a scale. “It is all the pleasure I have 
in life, to think of my boy, and to look at his picture, 
and read his letters, and drink the port he sends me— - 
first-rate stuff. He writes admirable letters, and never 
a month passes but I receive one. It would come ex- 
pensive if he wrote direct, so his letter is enclosed in the 
business papers sent to the house at Bristol, and they 
forward it to me. You shall read his last — out loud. It 
will give me a pleasure to hear it read by you.” 

“If I read properly, Mr. Menaida— with the spirit and 
wdth the understanding.” 

“ Exactly ! But you could not fail to do that looking 
at the cheerful face in the miniature, and reading his 
words — pleasant and bright as himself. Pity you have 
not seen him ; well, that makes something to live for. 
He has dark hair and blue eyes — not often met together, 
and when associated, very refreshing. Wait ! I’ll go 
after the letter : only, bless my soul ! where is it ? 
What coat did I have on when I read it? I’ll call Jump. 
She may remember. Wait ! do you recall this ? ” 

He stumbled over something on the keys which might 
have been anything. 

“ It is Haydn. I will tell you what I think : Mozart I 


48 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


delight in as a companion ; Beethoven I revere as a mas- 
ter ; but Haydn I love as a friend. You were about to 
say something ? ” 

Judith had set an elbow on the piano and put her 
hand to her head, her fingers through the hair, and was 
looking into Uncle Zachie’s face with an earnestness he 
could not mistake. She did desire to say something 
to him ; but if she waited till he gave her an opportu- 
nity she might wait a long time. He jumped from one 
subject to another with alacrity, and with rapid forget- 
fulness of what he was last speaking about. 

“ Oh, sir, I am so very, very grateful to you for having 
received us into your snug little house ” 

“ You like it ? Well, I only pay seven pounds for it. 
Cheap, is it not? Two cottages — laborers’ cottages — 
thrown together. Well, I might go farther and fare 
worse.” 

“ And, Mr. Menaida, I venture to ask you another fa- 
vor, which, if you will grant me, you will lay me under 
an eternal obligation.” 

“ You may command me, my dear.” 

“It is only this: not to let Jamie have anything 
stronger than a glass of cider. I do not mind his hav- 
ing that ; but a boy like him does not need what is, no 
doubt, wanted by you who are getting old. I am so 
afraid of the habit growing on him of looking for and 
liking what is too strong for him. He is such a child, 
so easily led, and so unable to control himself. It may 
be a fancy, a prejudice of mine ” — she passed her nervous 
hand over her face — “ I do hope I am not offending you, 
dear Mr. Menaida ; but I know Jamie so well, and I know 
how carefully he must be watched and checked. If it 
be a silly fancy of mine — and perhaps it is only a silly 
fancy — yet,” she put on a pleading tone, “ you will humor 
me in this, will you not, Mr. Menaida ? ” 

“ Bless my soul ! you have only to express a wish and 
I will fulfil it. For myself, you must know, I am a little 
weak ; I feel a chill when the wind turns north or east, 
and am always relaxed when it is in the south or west ; 
that forces me to take something just to save me from 
serious inconvenience, you understand.” 

“ Oh quite, sir.” 

“And then — confound it! — I am goaded on to work 
when disinclined. Why, there’s a letter come to me now 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 49 

from Plymouth — a naturalist there, asking- for more 
birds ; and what can I do ? I slave, I am at it all day, 
half the night ; I have no time to eat or sleep. I was 
not born to stuff birds. I take it as an amusement, a 
pastime, and it is converted into a toil. I must brace 
up my exhausted frame ; it is necessary to my health, 
you understand ? ” 

“ yes, Mr. Menaida. And you really will humor 
my childish whim ? ” 

‘‘ Certainly, you may rely on me.” 

“ That is one thing I wanted to say. You see, sir, we 
have but just come into your house, and already, last 
night, J amie was tempted to disobey me, and take what 
I thought unadvisable, so — I have been turning it over 
and over in my head — I thought I would like to come to 
a clear understanding with you, Mr. Menaida. It seems 
ungracious in me, but you must pity me. I have now 
all responsibility for Jamie on my head, and I have to 
do what my conscience tells me I should do ; only, I pray 
you, do not take offence at what I have said.” 

“ Fudge ! my dear ; you are right, I dare say.” 

“ And now that I have your promise — I have that, have 
I not ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly.” 

“ Now I want your opinion, if you will kindly give it 
me. I have no father, no mother, to go to for advice ; 
and so I venture to appeal to you — it is about Captain 
Coppinger.” 

“ Captain Coppinger ! ” repeated Uncle Zachie, screw- 
ing up his brows and mouth. “Umph! He is a bold 
man who can give help against Captain Coppinger, and 
a strong man as well as bold. How has he wronged 
you ? ” 

“ Oh ! he has not wronged me. It is I who have hurt 
him.” 

“ You — you ? ” Uncle Zachie laughed. “ A little creat- 
ure such as you could not hurt Captain Cruel ! ” 

“ But, indeed, I have ; I have thrown him down and 
broken his arms and some of his bones.”^ 

“ You ! ” Uncle Zachie’s face of astonishment and dis- 
may was so comical that Judith, in spite of her anxiety 
and exhaustion, smiled; but the smile was without 
brightness. 

“ And pray, how in the name of wonder did you do 


50 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


that ? Upon my word, you will deserve the thanks of 
the Preventive men. They have no love for him ; they 
have old scores they would gladly wipe off with a broken 
arm, or, better still, a cracked skull. And pray how did 
' you do this ? With the flour-holler ? ” 

“ No, sir, I will tell you the whole story.” 

Then, in its true sequence, with great clearness, she 
related the entire narrative of events. She told how her 
father, even with his last breath, had spoken of Coppin- 
ger as the man who had troubled his life by marring his 
work ; how that the Captain had entered the parsonage 
without ceremony when her dear father was lying dead 
up -stairs, and how he had called there boisterously for 
Aunt Dionysia because he wanted something of her. 
She told the old man how that her own feelings had been 
wrought, by this affront, into anger against Coppinger. 
Then she related the incident in the lane, and how that, 
when he raised his arm against her, she had dashed the 
buttons into his face, frightened his horse, and so pro- 
duced an accident that might have cost the Captain his 
life. 

“ Bless my soul ! ” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “ and what 
do you want ? Is it an assault ? I will run to my law- 
books and find out ; I don’t know that it can quite be 
made out a case of misadventure.” 

“ It is not that, sir.” 

“ Then what do you want ? ” 

“ I have been racking my head to think what I ought 
to do under the circumstances. There can be no doubt 
that I aggravated him. I was very angry, both because 
he had been a trouble to my darling papa, and then be- 
cause he had been so insolent as to enter our house and 
shout for Aunt Dunes ; but there was something more — 
he had tried to beat Jamie, and it was my father’s day 
of burial. All that roused a bad spirit in me, and I did 
say very bad words to him — words a man of metal would 
not bear from even a child, and I suppose I really did 
lash him to madness, and he would have struck me — but 
perhaps not, he might have thought better of it. I pro- 
voked him, and then I brought about what happened. 
I have been considering what I ought to do. If I remain 
here and take no notice, then he will think me very un- 
feeling, and that I do not care that I have hurt him in 
mind and body. It came into my head last night that 


J2V THE BOAR OF THE 8EA. 


51 


I would ask aunt to apologize to him for what I had 
done, or, better still, should aunt not come here to-day, 
which is very likely, that I might walk with Jamie to 
Pentyre and inquire how Captain Coppinger is, and send 
in word by my aunt that I am sorry — very sorry.” 

“ Upon my soul, I don’t know what to say. I could 
not have done this to Coppinger myself for a good deal 
of money. I think if I had, I would get out of the place 
as quickly as possible, while he was crippled by his 
broken bones. But then, you are a girl, and he may 
take it better from you than from me. Well — yes ; I 
think it would be advisable to allay his anger if you can. 
Upon my word, you have put yourself into a difficult 
position. I’ll go and look at my law-books, just for my 
own satisfaction.” 

A heavy blow on the door, and without waiting for a 
response and invitation to enter, it was thrown open, 
and there entered Cruel Coppinger, his arm bandaged, 
tied in splints, and bound to his body, with his heavy 
walking-stick brandished by the uninjured hand. He 
stood for a moment glowering in, searching the room 
with his keen eyes till they rested on Judith. Then he 
made an attempt to raise his hand to his head, but 
ineffectually. 

“ Curse it ! ” said he, “ I cannot do it ; don’t tear it 
off my head with your eyes, girl. Here, you Menaida, 
come here and take my hat off. Come instantly, or 
she — she will do — the devil knows what she will not do 
to me.” 

He turned, and with his stick beat the door back, 
that it slammed behind him. 


CHAPTEE Ym. 


A PATCHED PEACE. 

“ Look at her ! ” cried Coppinger, with his back against 
the house door, and pointing to Judith with his stick. 

She was standing near the piano, with one hand on 
it, and was half turned toward him. She was in black, 
but had a white kerchief about her neck. The absence 
of all color in her dress heightened the lustre of her 
abundant and glowing hair. 

Coppinger remained for a moment, pointing with a 
half sneer on his dark face. Mr. Menaida had nervously 
complied with his demand, and had removed the hat 
from the smuggler, and his dark hair fell about his face. 
That face was livid and pale ; he had evidently suffered 
much, and now every movement was attended with pain. 
Not only had some of his bones been broken, but he was 
bruised and strained. 

“ Look at her ! ” he shouted again, in his deep com- 
manding tones, and he fixed his fierce eyes on her and 
knitted his brows. She remained immovable, awaiting 
what he had to say. Though there was a flutter in her 
bosom, her hand on the piano did not shake. 

“I am very sorry. Captain Coppinger,” said Judith, in 
a low, sweet voice, in which there was but a slight trem- 
ulousness. ‘‘I profess that I believe I acted wrongly 
yesterday, and I repeat that I am sorry — very sorry. Cap- 
tain Coppinger.” 

He made no reply. He lowered the stick that had 
been pointed at her, and leaned on it. His hand shook 
because he was in pain. 

“ I acted wrongly yesterday,” continued Judith, “ but 
I acted under provocation that, if it does not justify 
what I did, palliates the wrong. I can say no more — 
that is the exact truth.” 

“ Is that all ? ” 

“I am sorry for what was wrong in my conduct — 
frankly sorry that you are hurt,” 


IN TUB ROAR OF THE SEA. 


53 


“You hear her?” laughed Coppinger, bitterly. “A 
little chit like that to speak to me thus ” — then, turning 
sharply on her, “ Are you not afraid ? ” 

“ No, I am not afraid ; why should I be ? ” 

“ Why ? Ask any one in S. Enodoc — any one in Corn- 
wall — who has heard my name.” 

“ I beg your pardon. I do not want to ask anyone 
else in S. Enodoc, any one else in Cornwall. I ask you.” 

“ Me ? You ask me why you should be afraid of me ? ” 
He paused, drew his thick brows together till they 
formed a band across his forehead. “ I tell you that none 
has ever wronged me by a blade of grass or a flock of 
wool but has paid for it a thousand-fold. And none has 
ever hurt me as you have done — ^none has ever dared to 
attempt it.” 

“ I have said that I am sorry.” 

“ You talk like one cold as a mermaid. I do not be- 
lieve in your fearlessness. Why do you lean on the 
piano. There, touch the wires with the very tips of your 
fingers, and let me hear if they give a sound — and sound 
they will if you tremble.” 

Judith exposed some of the wires by raising the top 
of the piano. Then she smiled, and stood with the tips 
of her delicate fingers just touching the chords. Coppin- 
ger listened, so did Uncle Zachie, and not a vibration 
could they detect. 

Presently she withdrew her hand, and said, “Is not 
that enough ? When a girl says, ‘ I am sorry,’ I sup- 
posed the chapter was done and the book closed.” 

“You have strange ideas.” 

“ I have those in which I was brought up by the best 
of fathers.” 

Coppinger thrust his stick along the floor. 

“ Is it due to the ideas in which you have been brought 
up that you are not afraid — when you have reduced me 
to a wreck ? ” 

“ And you ? — are you afraid of the wreck that you have 
made ? ” 

The dark blood sprang into and suffused his whole 
face. Uncle Zachie drew back against the wall and made 
signs to Judith not to provoke their self-invited visitor; 
but she was looking steadily at the Captain, and did not 
observe the signals. In Coppinger’s presence she felt 
nerved to stand on the defensive, and more, to attack. A 


54 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


threat in his whole bearing*, in his manner of addressing 
her, roused every energy she possessed. 

“ I tell you,” said he, harshly, “ if any man had used the 
word you threw at me yesterday, I would have murdered 
him ; I would have split his skull with the handle of my 
crop.” 

“ You raised your hand to do it to me,” said Judith. 

“ No ! ” he exclaimed, violently. “ It is false ; come 
here, and let me see if you have the courage, the fearless- 
ness you affect. You women are past-masters* of dis- 
sembling. Come here ; kneel before me and let me raise 
my stick over you. See ; there is lead in the handle, and 
with one blow I can split your skull and dash the brains 
over the floor.” 

J udith remained immovable. 

“ I thought it — you are afraid.” 

She shook her head. 

He let himself, with some pain, slowly into a chair. 

“ You are afraid. You know what to expect. Ah ! I 
could fell you and trample on you and break your bones, 
as I was cast down, trampled on, and broken in my bones 
yesterday — by you, or through you. Are you afraid ? ” 

She took a step toward him. Then Uncle Zachie 
waved her back, in great alarm. He caught Judith’s at- 
tention, and she answered him, “ I am not afraid. I gave 
him a word I should not have given him yesterday. I 
will show him that I retract it fully.” Then she stepped 
up to Coppinger and sank on her knees before him. He 
raised his whip, with the loaded handle, brandishing it 
over her. 

“ Now I am here,” she said, “ I again ask your forgive- 
ness, but I protest an apology is due to me.” 

He threw his stick away. “ By heaven, it is ! ” Then 
in an altered tone, “ Take it so, that I ask your forgive- 
ness. Get up ; do not kneel to me. I could not have 
struck you down had I willed, my arm is stiff. Perhaps 
you knew it.” 

He rose with effort to his feet again. Judith drew 
back to her former position by the piano, two hectic 
spots of flame were in her cheek, and her eyes were pre- 
tematurally bright. 

Coppinger looked steadily at her for a while, then he 
said, “ Are you ill ? You look as if you were.” 

“ I have had much to go through of late.” 


/iV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


55 


“ True.” 

He remained looking- at her, brooding over something 
in his mind. She perplexed him ; he wondered at her. 
He could not comprehend the spirit that was in her, that 
sustained a delicate little frame, and made her defy him. 

His eyes wandered round the room, and he signed to 
Uncle Zachie to give him his stick again. 

“ What is that % ” said he, pointing to the miniature on 
the stand for music, where Mr. Menaida had put it, over 
a sheet of the music he had been playing, or attempting 
to play. 

“ It is my son, Oliver,” said Uncle Zachie. 

“ Why is it there ? Has she been looking at it ? Let 
me see it.” 

Mr. Menaida hesitated, but presently handed it to the 
redoubted Captain, with nervous twitches in his face. 
“ I value it highly — my only child.” 

Coppinger looked at it, with a curl of his lips ; then 
handed it back to Mr. Menaida. 

“ Why is it here ? ” 

‘‘ I brought it here to show it her. I am very proud 
of my son,” said Uncle Zachie. 

Coppinger was in an irritable mood, captious about 
trifles. Why did he ask ^ questions about this little 
picture ? Why look suspiciously at Judith as he did so 
— suspiciously and threateningly ? 

“ Do you play on the piano ? ” asked Coppinger. 
“ When the evil spirit was on Saul, David struck the harp 
and sent the spirit away. Let me hear how you can 
touch the notes. It may do me good. Heaven knows it 
is not often I have the leisure, or the occasion, or am in 
the humor for music. I would hear what you can do.” 

Judith looked at Uncle Zachie. 

“ I cannot play,” she said ; “ that is to say, I can play, 
but not now, and on this piano.” 

But Mr. Menaida interfered and urged her to play. 
He was afraid of Coppinger. 

She seated herself on the music-stool and considered 
for a moment. The miniature was again on the stand. 
Coppinger put out his stick and thrust it ofi*, and it 
would have fallen had not Judith caught it. She gpe it 
to Mr. Menaida, who hastily carried it into the adjoining 
room, where the sight of it might no longer irritate the 
Captain. 


56 


IJSr THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


“ What shall I play ? — I mean, strum ? ” asked Judith, 
looking* at Uncle Zachie. “Beethoven? No — Haydn. 
Here are his ‘ Seasons.’ I can play ‘ Spring*.’ ” 

She had a light, but firm touch. Her father had been 
a man of great musical taste, and he had instructed her. 
But she had, moreover, the musical faculty in her, and 
she played with the spirit and with the understanding 
also. Wondrous is the power of music, passing that of 
fabled necromancy. It takes a man up out of his most 
sordid surroundings, and sets him in heavenly places. 
It touches fibres of the inner nature, lost, forgotten, 
ignored, and makes them thrill with a new life. It 
seals the eyes to outward sights, and unfurls new vis- 
tas full of transcendental beauty ; it breathes over hot 
wounds and heals them ; it calls to the surface springs 
of pure delight, and bids them gush forth in an arid 
desert. 

It was so now, as, under the sympathetic fingers of 
Judith, Haydn’s song of the “Spring” was sung. A 
May world arose in that little dingy room ; the walls 
fell back and disclosed green woods thick with red robin 
and bursting bluebells, fields golden with buttercups, 
hawthorns clothed in flower, from which sang the black- 
bird, thrush, the finch, and the ouzel. The low ceiling 
rose and overarched as the speed- well blue vault of 
heaven, the close atmosphere was dispelled by a waft of 
crisp, pure air ; shepherds piped. Boy Bluet blew his 
horn, and milkmaids rattled their pails and danced a 
ballet on the turf ; and over all, down into every corner 
of the soul, streamed the glorious, golden sun, filling the 
heart with gladness. 

Uncle Zachie had been standing at the door leading 
into his workshop, hesitating whether to remain, with a 
pish ! and a pshaw ! or to fly away beyond hearing. 
But he was arrested, then drawn lightly, irresistibly, 
step by step, toward the piano, and he noiselessly sank 
upon a chair, with his eyes fixed on Judith’s fingers as 
they danced over the keys. His features assumed a 
more refined character as he listened; the water rose 
into his eyes, his lips quivered, and when, before reach- 
ing the end of the piece, Judith faltered and stopped, he 
laid his hand on her wrist and said: “My dear — you 
you do not strum. Blay when you will — never can 
it be too long^ too much for m« It may steady my 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 67 

hand, it may dispel the chill and the damp better than 
— but never mind — never mind.” 

Why had Judith failed to accomplish the piece? 
Whilst engaged on the notes she had felt that the 
searching, beaming eyes of the smuggler were on her, 
fixed with fierce intensity. She could meet them, look- 
ing straight at him, without shrinking, and without con- 
fusion, but to be searched by them whilst off her guard, 
her attention engaged on her music, was what she could 
not endure. 

Coppinger made no remark on what he had heard, but 
his face gave token that the music had not swept across 
him without stirring and softening his hard nature. 

“ How long is she to be here — with you ? ” he asked, 
turning to Uncle Zachie. 

“ Captain, I cannot tell. She and her brother had to 
leave the rectory. They could not remain in that house 
alone. Mrs. Trevisa asked me to lodge them here, and 
I consented. I knew their father.” 

“ She did not ask me. I would have taken them in.” 

“ Perhaps she was diffident of doing that,” said Uncle 
Zachie. “ But really, on my word, it is no inconvenience 
to me, I have room in this house, and my maid. Jump, 
has not enough to do to attend on me.” 

“ When you are tired of them send them to me.” 

“ I am not likely to be tired of Judith, now that I have 
heard her play.” 

“ Judith — is that her name ? ” 

“ Yes — Judith.” 

“ Judith ! ” he repeated, and thrust his stick along the 
floor, meditatively. “ Judith ! ” Then, after a pause, 
with his eyes on the ground, “ Why did not your aunt 
speak to me ? Why does she not love you ? — she does 
not, I know. Why did she not go to see you when 
your father was alive ? Why did you not come to the 
Glaze ? ” 

“ My dear papa did not wish me to go to your house,” 
said Judith, answering one of his many questions, the 
last, and perhaps the easiest to reply to. 

“ Why not ? ” he glanced up at her, then down on the 
floor again. 

“ Papa was not very pleased with x\unt Dunes — it w^ 
no fault on either side, only a misunderstanding,” said 
Judith. 


58 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


“ Why did he not let you come to my house to salute 
your aunt ? ” 

Judith hesitated. He again looked up at her search- 
ingly. 

“If you really must know the truth, Captain Cop- 
pinger, papa thought your house was hardly one to 
which to send two childi'en — it was said to harbor such 
wild folk.” 

“ And he did not know how fiercely and successfully 
you could defend yourself against wild folk,” said Cop- 
pinger, with a harsh laugh. “It is we wild men that 
must fear you, for you dash us about and bruise and 
break us when displeased with our ways. We are not so 
bad at the Glaze as we are painted, not by a half — here 
is my hand on it.” 

Judith was still seated on the music-stool, her hands 
resting in her lap. Coppinger came toward her, walk- 
ing stifily, and extending his palm. 

She looked down in her lap. What did this fierce, 
strange man, mean 1 

“ Will you give me your hand ? ” he asked. “ Is there 
peace between us ? ” 

She was doubtful what to say. He remained, awaiting 
her answer. 

“ I really do not know what reply to make,” she said, 
after awhile. “ Of course, so far as I am concerned, it is 
peace. I have myself no quarrel with you, and you are 
good enough to say that you forgive me.” 

“ Then why not peace ? ” 

Again she let him wait before answering. She was 
uneasy and unhappy. She wanted neither his good- 
will nor his hostility. 

“In all that affects me, I bear you no ill-will,” she 
said, in a low, tremulous voice ; “ but in that you were a 
grief to my dear, dear father, discouraging his heart, I 
cannot be forgetful, and so full of charity as to blot it 
out as though it had not been.” 

“Then let it be a patched peace — a peace with eva- 
sions and reservations. Better that than none. Give 
me your hand.” 

“On that understanding,” said Judith, and laid her 
hand in his. His iron fingers closed round it, and he 
drew her up from the stool on which she sat, drew her 
forward near the window, and thrust her in front of him. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


59 


Then he raised her hand, held it by the wrist, and looked 
at it. 

“ It is very small, very weak,” he said, musingly. 

Then there rushed over her mind the recollection of 
her last conversation with her father. He, too, had 
taken and looked at her hand, and had made the same 
remark. 

Coppinger lowered her hand and his, and, looking at 
her, said : 

“ You are very wonderful to me.” 

“ I — why so ? ” 

He did not answer, but let go his hold of her, and 
turned away to the door. 

Judith saw that he was leaving, and she hastened 
to bring him his stick, and she opened the door for 
him. 

“ I thank you,” he said, turned, pointed his stick at 
her, and added, “It is peace — though a patched one.” 


CHAPTEE IX. 


c. c. 

Days ensued, not of rest to body, but of relaxation to 
mind. Judith’s overstrained nerves had now given 
them a period of numbness, a sleep of sensibility with 
occasional turnings and wakenings, in which they re- 
covered their strength. She and Jamie were settled 
into their rooms at Mr. Menaida’s, and the hours were 
spent in going to and from the rectory removing their 
little treasures to the new home — if a temporary place 
of lodging could be called a home — and in arranging 
them there. 

There were a good many farewells to be taken, and 
Judith marvelled sometimes at the insensibility with 
which she said them — farewells to a thousand nooks and 
corners of the house and garden, the shrubbery, and the 
glebe farm, all endeared by happy recollections, now 
having their brightness dashed with rain. , 

To Judith this was a first revelation of the mutability 
of things on earth. Hitherto, as a child, with a child’s 
eyes and a child’s confidence, she had regarded the rec- 
tory, the glebe, the contents of the. house, the flowers in 
the garden, as belonging inalienably to her father and 
brother and herself. They belonged to them together. 
There was nothing that was her father’s that did not be- 
long to Jamie and to her, nothing of her brother’s or her 
own that was not likewise the property of papa. There 
was no mine or thine in that little family of love — save 
only a few birthday presents given from one to the 
other, and these only special property by a playful con- 
cession. But now the dear father was gone, and every 
right seemed to dissolve. From the moment that he 
leaned back against the brick, lichen-stained wall, and 
sighed — and was dead, house and land had been snatched 
from them. And though the contents of the rectory, 
the books, and the furniture, and the china belonged to 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


61 


them, it was but for a little while ; these things must be 
parted with also, turned into silver. 

Not because the money was needed, but because Ju- 
dith had no settled home, and no prospect of one. 
Therefore she must not encumber herself with many be- 
longings. For a little while she would lodge with Mr. 
Menaida, but she could not live there forever ; she must 
remove elsewhere, and she must consider, in the first 
place, that there was not room in Uncle Zachie’s cot- 
tage for accumulations of furniture, and that, in the next 
place, she would probably have to part with them on 
her next remove, even if she did retain them for a 
while. 

If these things were to be parted with, it would be ad- 
visable to part with them at once. But to this deter- 
mination Judith could not bring herself at first. Though 
she had put aside, to be kept,, things too sacred to her, 
too much part of her past life, to be allowed to go into 
the sale, after a few days she relinquished even these. 
Those six delightful old colored prints, in frames, of a 
fox-hunt — how Jamie had laughed at them, and followed 
the incidents in them, and never wearied of them — must 
they go — perhaps for a song? It must be so. That 
work-table of her mother’s, of dark rosewood, with a 
crimson bag beneath it to contain wools and silks, one 
of the few remembrances she had of that mother whom 
she but dimly recalled— must that go ?— what, and all 
those skeins in it of colored floss silk, and the piece of 
embroidery half finished? the work of her mother, 
broken off by death— that also ? It must be so. And 
that rusty leather chair in which papa had sat, with one 
golden-headed child on each knee cuddled into his 
breast, with the flaps of his coat drawn over their heads, 
which listened to the tick-tick of his great watch, and to 
the tale of Little Snowflake, or Gracieuse and Percinet ? 
— must that go also ? It must be so. 

Every day showed to Judith some fresh link that had 
to be broken. She could not bear to think that the 
mother’s work-table should be contended for at a vulgar 
auction, and struck down to a blousy farmer’s wife ; that 
her father’s chair should go to some village inn to be 
occupied by sots. She would rather have seen them de- 
stroyed ; but to destroy them would not be right. 

After a white she longed for the sale ; she desired to 


62 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


have it over, that an entirely new page of life might be 
opened, and her thoughts might not be carried back to 
the past by everything she saw. 

Of Coppinger nothing further was seen. Nor did 
Aunt Dionysia appear at the rectory to superintend the 
assortment of the furniture, nor at Mr. Menaida’s to in- 
quire into the welfare of her nephew and niece. To Ju- 
dith it was a relief not to have her aunt in the parson- 
age while she was there ; that hard voice and unsympa- 
thetic manner would have kept her nerves on the quiver. 
It was best as it was, that she should have time, by 
herself, with no interference from any one, to select what 
was to be kept and put away what was to be sold ; to 
put away gently, with her own trembling hand, and with 
eyes full of tears, the old black gown and the Oxford 
hood that papa had worn in church, and to burn his old 
sermons and bundles of letters, unread and uncommented 
on by Aunt Dunes. 

In these days Judith did not think much of Cop- 
pinger. Uncle Zachie informed her that he was worse, 
he was confined to his bed, he had done himself harm 
by coming over to Polzeath the day after his accident, 
and the doctor had ordered him not to stir from Pentyre 
Glaze for some time — not till his bones were set.^ Noth- 
ing was known of the occasion of Coppinger ’s injuries, 
so Uncle Zachie said ; it was reported in the place that 
he had been thrown from his horse. Judith entreated 
the old man not to enlighten the ignorance of the pub- 
lic ; she was convinced that naught would transj)ire 
through Jamie, who could not tell a story intelligibly ; 
and Miss Dionysia Trevisa was not likely to publish 
what she knew. 

Judith had a pleasant little chamber at Mr. Menaida’s ; 
it was small, low, plastered against the roof, the rafters 
showing, and whitewashed like the walls and ceiling. 
The light entered from a dormer in the roof, a low 
window glazed with diamond quarries set in lead that 
dickered incessantly in the wind. It faced the south, 
and let the sun flow in. A scrap of carpet was on the 
floor, and white curtains to the window. In this cham- 
ber Judith ranged such of her goods as she had resolved 
on retaining, either as indispensable, or as being too 
dear to her to part with unnecessarily, and which, as 
being of small size, she might keep without difficulty. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


63 


Her father’s old travelling trunk, covered with hide 
with the hair on, and his initials in brass nails — a trunk 
he had taken with him to college — was there, thrust 
against the wall ; it contained her clothes. Suspended 
above it was her little bookcase, with the shelves laden 
with “ The Travels of Kolando,” Dr. Aitkin’s “ Evenings 
at Home,” Magnal’s “ Questions,” a French Dictionary, 
“ Paul and Virginia,” and a few other works such as were 
the delight of children from ninety to a hundred years 
ago. 

Books for children were rare in those days, and such 
as were produced were read and re-read till they were 
woven into the very fibre of the mind, never more to 
be extricated and cast aside. Now it is otherwise. A 
child reads a story-book every week, and each new 
story-book effaces the impression produced by the book 
that went before. The result of much reading is the 
same as the result of no reading — the production of a 
blank. 

How Judith and Jamie had sat together perched up 
in a sycamore, in what they called their nest, and had 
revelled in the adventures of Bolando, she reading 
aloud, he listening a little, then lapsing into observa- 
tion of the birds that flew and hopped about, or the 
insects that spun and crept, or dropped on silky lines, 
or fluttered humming about the nest, then returned to 
attention to the book again! Kolando would remain 
through life the friend and companian of Judith. She 
could not part with the four-volumed, red-leather-backed 
book. 

For the first day or two Jamie had accompanied his 
sister to the rectory, and had somewhat incommoded her 
by his restlessness and his mischief, but on the third 
day, and thenceforth, he no longer attended her. He 
had made fast friends with Uncle Zachie. He was 
amused with watching the process of bird-stuffing, and 
the old man made use of the boy by giving him tow to 
pick to pieces and wires to straighten. 

Mr. Menaida was pleased to have some one by him in 
his workshop to whom he could talk. It was unimpor- 
tant to him whether the listener followed the thread of 
his conversation or not, so long as he was a listener. 
Mr. Menaida, in his solitude, had been wont to talk to 
himself, to grumble to himself at the impatience of his 


64 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


customers, to lament to himself the excess of work that 
pressed upon him and deprived him of time for relaxa- 
tion. He was wont to criticise, to himself, his success or 
want of success in the setting- up of a bird. It was far 
Inore satisfactory to him to be able to address all these 
remarks to a second party. 

He was, moreover, surprised to find how keen and 
just had been Jamie’s observation of birds, their ways, 
their attitudes. Judith was delighted to think that 
Jamie had discovered talent of some sort, and he had, so 
Uncle Zachie assured her, that imitative ability which 
is often found to exist alongside with low intellectual 
power, and this enabled him to assist Mr. Menaida in 
giving a natural posture to his birds. 

It fiattered the boy to find that he was appreciated, 
that he was consulted, and asked to assist in a kind of 
work that exacted nothing of his mind. 

When Uncle Zachie was tired of his task, which was 
every ten minutes or quarter of an hour, and that was 
the extreme limit to which he could continue regular 
work, he lit his pipe, left his bench, and sat in his arm- 
chair. Then Jamie also left his tow-picking or wire- 
punching, and listened, or seemed to listen, to Mr. Me- 
naida’s talk. When the old man had finished his pipe, 
and, with a sigh, went back to his task, Jamie was tired 
of hearing him talk, and was glad to resume his work. 
Thus the two desultory creatures suited each other ad- 
mirably, and became attached friends. 

“Jamie ! what is the meaning of this ? ” asked Judith, 
with a start and a rush of blood to her heart. 

She had returned in the twilight from the parsonage. 
There was something in the look of her brother, some- 
thing in his manner that was unusual. 

“ Jamie ! What have you been taking ? Who gave it 
you ? ” 

She caught the boy by the arm. Distress and shame 
were in her face, in the tones of her voice. 

Mr. Menaida grunted. 

“ I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped — really it can’t,” said 
he, apologetically. “ But Captain Coppinger has sent 
me do^ a present of a keg of cognac — real cognac, 
splendid, amber-like— and, you know, it was uncom- 
monly kind. He never did it before. So there was no 
avoidance ; we had to tap it and taste it, and give a sup 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


65 


to the fellow who brought us the keg, and drink the 
health of the Captain. One could not be churlish ; and, 
naturally, I could not abstain from letting Jamie try the 
spirit. Perfectly pure — quite wholesome — first-rate 
quality Upon my word, he had not more than a fly 
could dip his legs in and feel the bottom ; but he is un- 
accustomed to anything stronger than cider, and this is 
stronger than I supi)osed.” 

“ Mr. Menaida, you promised me ” 

“Bless me! There are contingencies, you know. I 
never for a moment thought that Captain Coppinger 
would show me such a favor, would have such courtesy. 
But, upon my honor, I think it is your doing, my dear I 
You shook hands and made peace with him, and he has 
sent this in token of the cessation of hostilities and the 
ratification of the agreement.” 

“ Mr. Menaida, I trusted you. I did believe, when you 
passed your word to me, that you would hold to it.” 

“ Now — there, don’t take it in that way. Jamie, you 
rascal, hop off to bed. He’ll be right as a trivet to-mor- 
row morning, I stake my reputation on that. There, 
there, I will help him up- stairs.” 

Judith suffered Mr. Menaida to do as he proposed. 
When he had left the room with Jamie, who was reluc- 
tant to go, and struggled to remain, she seated herself 
on the sofa, and covering her face with her hands burst 
into tears. Whom could she trust ? No one. 

Had she been alone in the world she would have been 
more confident of the future, been able to look forward 
with a good courage ; but she had to carry Jamie with 
her, who must be defended from himself, and from the 
weak good-nature of those he was with. 

When Uncle Zachie came down-stairs he slunk into 
his workroom and was very quiet. No lamp or candle 
was lighted, and it was too dark for him to continue his 
employment on the birds. What was he doing ? Noth- 
ing. He was ashamed of himself, and keeping out of 
Judith’s way. 

But Judith would not let him escape so easily ; she 
went to him, as he avoided her, and found him seated ' 
in a comer turning his pipe about. He had been afraid 
of striking a light, lest he should call her attention to 
his presence. 

“Oh, my dear, come in here into the workshop to me ! 


66 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


This is an honor, an unexpected pleasure. Jamie and 
I have been drudging like slaves all day, and we’re 
fagged — fagged to the ends of our fingers and toes.” 

“ Mr. Menaida, I am sorry to say it, but if such a thing 
happens again as has taken place this evening, J amie 
and I must leave your house. I thank you with an over- 
flowing heart for your goodness to' us ; but I must con- 
sider Jamie above everything else, and I must see that 
he be not exposed to temptation.” 

“ Where will you take him ? ” ^ 

“ I cannot tell ; but I must shield him.” 

“ There, there, not a word ! It shall never happen 
again. Now let by-gones be by-gones, and play me 
something of Beethoven, while I sit here and listen in 
the twilight.” 

“No, Mr. Menaida, I cannot. ^ I have not the spirit to 
do it. I can think only of Jamie.” 

“ So you punish me ! ” 

“ Take it so. I am sorry ; - but I cannot do otherwise.”' 

“ Now, look here ! Bless my soul ! I had almost for- 
gotten it. Here is a note for you, from the Captain, I 
believe.” He went to the chimney-piece and took down 
a scrap of paper, folded and sealed. 

Judith looked at it and went to the window, broke the 
seal, and opened the paper. She read — 

“ Why do you not come and see me ? You do not care 
for what you have done. They call me cruel ; but you 
are that. — C. C.” 


CHAPTEE X. 

EGO ET KEGINA MEA. 


The strange, curt note from Cruel Coppinger served 
in a measure to divert the current of Judith’s thoughts 
from her trouble about Jamie. It was, perhaps, as well, 
or she would have fretted over that throughout the night, 
not only because of Jamie, but because she felt that her 
father had left his solemn injunction on her to protect 
and guide her twin-brother, and she knew that whatso- 
ever harm, physical or moral, came to him, argued a lack 
of attention to her duty. Her father had not been dead 
many days, and already Jamie had been led from the path 
she had undertaken to keep him in. 

But when she began to worry herself about Jamie, the 
bold characters, “ C. C.,” with which the letter was signed, 
rose before her, and glowed in the dark as characters of 
fire. 

She had gone to her bedroom, and had retired for the. 
night, but could not sleep. The moon shone through 
the lattice into her chamber, and on the stool by the 
window lay the letter, where she had cast it. Her mind 
turned to it. 

Why did Coppinger call her cruel ? Was she cruel ? 
Not intentionally so. She had not wilfully injured him. 
He did not suppose that. He meant that she was heart- 
less and indifferent in letting him suffer without making 
any inquiry concerning him. 

He had injured himself by coming to Polzeath to see 
her the day following his accident. Uncle Zachie had 
assured her of that. 

She went on in her busy mind to ask why he had come 
to see her ? Surely there had been no need for him to 
do so ! His motive — the only motive she could imagine 
— was a desire to relieve her from anxiety and distress of 
mind ; a desire to show her that he bore no ill-will tow- 
ard her for what she had done. That was generous and 


68 IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 

considerate of liim. Had he not come she certainly 
would have been unhappy and in unrest, would have im- 
agined all kinds of evil as likely to ensue through his> 
hostility— for one thing, her aunt’s dismissal from hei 
130st might have been expected. 

But Coppinger, though in pain, and at a risk to his 
health, had walked to where she was lodging to disabuse 
her of any such impression. She was grateful to him for 
so doing. She felt that such a man could not be utterly 
abandoned by God, entirely void of good qualities, as 
she had supposed, viewing him only through the repre- 
sentations of his character and the tales circulating rela- 
tive to his conduct that had reached her. 

A child divides mankind into two classes — the good 
and the bad, and supposes that there is no debatable land 
between them, where light and shade are blended into 
neutral tint ; certainly not that there are blots on the 
white leaf of the lives of the good, and luminous 
glimpses in the darkness of the histories of the bad. As 
t^hey grow older they rectify their judgments, and such 
a rectification Judith had now to make. 

She was assisted in this by compassion for Coppinger, 
who was in suffering, and by self-reproach, because she 
was the occasion of this suffering. 

What were the exact words Captain Cruel had em- 
ployed ? She was not certain ; she turned the letter over 
and over in her mind, and could not recall every expres- 
sion, and she could not sleep till she was satisfied. 

Therefore she rose from bed, stole to the window, took 
up the letter, seated herself on the stool, and conned 
it in the moonlight. “Why do you not come and see 
me ? You do not care for what you have done.” That 
was not true ; she was greatly troubled at what she had 
done. ^ She was sick at heart when she thought of that 
scene in the lane, when the black mare was leaping and 
pounding with her hoofs, and Coppinger lay on the 
ground. One kick of the hoof on his head, and he would 
have been dead. His blood would have rested on her 
conscience, never to be wiped off. Horrible was the recol- 
lection now, in the stillness of the night. It was mar- 
vellous that life had not been beaten out of the prostrate 
man, that, dragged about by the arm, he had not been 
torn to pieces, that every bone had not been shattered, 
that his face had not been battered out of recognition. 


m THE BOAR OP THE SEA, 


69 


Judith felt the perspiration stand on her brow at the 
thought. God had been very good to her in sending 
His angel to save Coppinger from death and her from 
blood-guiltiness. She slid to her knees at the window, 
and held up her hands, the moonlight illuminating her 
white upturned face, as she gave thanks to Heaven that 
no greater evil had ensued from her inconsidered act with 
the button-basket than a couple of broken bones. 

Oh ! it was very far indeed from true that she did not 
care for what she had done. Coppinger must have been 
blind indeed not to have seen how she felt her conduct. 
His letter concluded : “ They call me cruel ; but you are 
that.” He meant that she was cruel in not coming to the 
Glaze to inquire after him. He had thought of her 
trouble of mind, and had gone to Polzeath to relieve her 
of anxiety, and she had shown no consideration for him 
— or not in like manner. 

She had been very busy at the rectory. Her mind had 
been concerned with her own affairs, that was her ex- 
cuse. Cruel she was not. She took no pleasure in his 
pain. But she hesitated about going to see him. That 
was more than was to be expected of a young girl. She 
would go on the morrow to Coppinger’s house, and ask 
to speak to her aunt ; that she might do, and from Aunt 
Hionysia she would learn in what condition Captain 
Cruel was, and might send him her respects and wishes 
for his speedy recovery. 

As she still knelt in her window, looking up through 
the diamond panes into the clear, gray -blue sky, she 
heard a sound without, and, looking down, saw a convoy 
of horses pass, laden with bales and kegs, and followed 
or accompanied by men wearing slouched hats. So 
little noise did the beasts make in traversing the road, 
that Judith was convinced their hoofs must be muffled 
in felt. She had heard that this was done by the smug- 
glers. It was said that all Coppinger’s horses had their 
boots drawn on when engaged in conveying run goods 
from the place where stored to their destination. 

These were Coppinger’s men, this his convoy, doubt- 
less. Judith thrust the letter from her. He was a bad 
man, a very bad man ; and if he had met with an acci- 
dent, it was his due, a judgment on his sins. She rose 
from her knees, turned away, and went back to her bed. 

Next day, after a morning spent at the rectory, in the 


70 


IN THE ROAE OF THE SEA. 


hopes that her aunt might arrive and obviate the need 
of her going in quest of her, Judith, disappointed in 
this hope, jDrepared to walk to Pentyre. Mrs. Dionysia 
had not acted with kindness toward her. Judith felt 
this, without allowing herself to give to the feeling 
articulate expression. She made what excuses she 
could for Aunt Dunes : she was hindered by duties that 
had crowded upon her, she had been forbidden going 
by Captain Cruel; but none of these excuses satisfied 
Judith. 

Judith must go herself to the Glaze, and she had 
reasons of her own for wishing to see her aunt, inde- 
pendent of the sense of obligation on her, more or less 
acknowledged, that she must obey the summons of C. C. 
There were matters connected with the rectory, with 
the furniture there, the cow, and the china, that Mrs. 
Trevisa must give her judgment upon. There were 
bills that had come in, wdiich Mrs. Trevisa must pay, 
as Judith had been left without any money in her 
pocket. 

As the girl walked through the lanes she turned over 
in her mind the stories she had heard of the smuggler 
Captain, the wild tales of his wrecking ships, of his 
contests with the Preventive men, and the ghastly trag- 
edy of Wyvill, who had been washed up headless on 
Doombar. In former days she had accepted all these 
stories as true, had not thought of questioning them; 
but now that she had looked Coppinger in the face, had 
spoken with him, experienced his consideration, she 
could not believe that they were to be accepted without 
question. That story of Wyvill — that Captain Cruel 
had hacked off his head on the gunwale with his axe — 
seemed to her now utterly incredible. But if true ! She 
shuddered to think that her hand had been held in that 
stained with so hideous a crime. 

Thus musing, Judith arrived at Pentyre Glaze, and 
entering the porch, turned from the sea, knocked at tho 
door. 

A loud voice bade her enter. She knew that the voice 
proceeded from Coppinger, and her heart fluttered with 
fear and uncertainty. She halted, with her hand on the 
door, inclined to retreat without entering; but again 
the voice summoned her to come it, and gathering uj) 
her courage she opened the door, and, still holding the 


/iV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 71 

latch, took a few steps forward into the hall or kitchen, 
into which it opened. 

A fire was smouldering in the great open fireplace, 
and beside it, in a carved oak arm-chair, sat Cruel Cop- 
pinger, with a small table at his side, on which were a 
bottle and glass, a canister of tobacco and a pipe. His 
arm was strapped across his breast as she had seen it a 
few days before. Entering from the brilliant light of 
day, Judith could not at first observe his face, but, as 
her eyes became accustomed to the twilight of the 
smoke-blackened and gloomy hall, she saw that he 
looked more worn and pale than he had seemed the day 
after the accident. Nor could she understand the ex- 
pression on his countenance when he was aware who 
was his visitor. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Judith ; “ I am sorry to have 
intruded ; but I wished to speak to my aunt.” 

“ Your aunt ? Old mother Dunes ? Come in. Let 
go your hold of the door and shut it. Your aunt started 
a quarter of an hour ago for the rectory.” 

“ And I came along the lane from Polzeath.” 

“ Then no wonder you did not meet her. She went by 
the church path, of course, and over the down.” 

“ I am sorry to have missed her. Thank you. Captain 
Coppinger, for telling me.” 

“ Stay ! ” he roared, as he observed her draw back into 
the porch. “ You are not going yet ? ” 

“ I cannot stay for more than a moment in which to 
ask how you do, and whether you are somewhat better ? 
I was sorry to hear you had been worse.” 

“ I have been worse, yes. Come in. You shall not go. 
I am mewed in as a prisoner, and have none to speak to, 
and no one to look at but old Dunes. Come in, and take 
that stool by the fire, and let me hear you speak, and 
let me rest my eyes a while on your golden hair — gold 
more golden than that of the Indies.” 

“ I hope you are better, sir,” said Judith, ignoring the 
compliment. 

“ I am better now I have seen you. I shall be worse 
if you do not come in.” 

She refused to do this by a light shake of the head. 

“ I suppose you are afraid. We are wild and lawless 
men here, ogres that eat children ! Come, child, I have 
something to show you.” 


72 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Thank you for your kindness ; but I must run to the 
parsonage ; I really must see my aunt.” 

“ Then I will send her to Polzeath to you when she re- 
turns. She will keep ; she’s stale enough.” 

“ I would spare her the trouble.” 

“ Pshaw ! She shall do what I will. Now see — I am 
wearied to death with solitude and sickness. Come, 
amuse yourself, if you will, with insulting me — calling 
me what you like; I do not mind, so long as you re- 
main.” 

“I have no desire whatever. Captain Coppinger, to 
insult you and call you names.” 

“ You insult me by standing there holding the latch — 
standing on one foot, as if afraid to sully the soles by 
treading my tainted floor. Is it not an insult that you 
refuse to come in % Is it not so much as saying to me, 
‘ You are false, cruel, not to be trusted ; you are not 
worthy that I should be under the same roof with you, 
and breathe the same air ’ ” 

“ Oh, Captain Coppinger, I do not mean that ! ” 

“ Then let go the latch and come in. Stand, if you will 
not sit, opposite me. How can I see you there, in the 
doorway ? ” 

“ There is not much to see when I am visible,” said 
Judith, laughing. 

“ Oh, no ! not much ! Only a little creature who has 
more daring than any man in Cornwall — who will stand 
up to, and cast at her feet. Cruel Coppinger, at whose 
name men tremble.” 

Judith let go her hold on the door, and moved timidly 
into the hall ; but she let the door remain half open that 
the light and air flowed in.” 

“ And now,” said Captain Coppinger, “ here is a key 
on this table by me. Do you see a small door by the 
clock-case ? Unlock that door with the key.” 

“ You want something from thence ? ” 

“ I want you to unlock the door. There are beautiful 
and costly things within that you shall see.” 

“ Thank you ; but I Vi^ould rather look at them some 
other day, when my aunt is here, and I have more time.” 

“ Will you refuse me even the pleasure of letting you 
see what is there ? ” 

“ If you particularly desire it. Captain Coppinger, I 
will peep in— but only peep.” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 73 

She took the key from his table, and crossed the hall 
to the door. The lock was large and clnmsy, but she 
turned the key by putting both hands to it. Then, 
swinging open the door, she looked inside. The door 
opened into an apartment crowded with a collection of 
sundry articles of value : bales of silk from Italy, Genoa 
laces, Spanish silver-inlaid weapons, Chinese porcelain, 
bronzes from Japan, gold and silver ornaments, brace- 
lets, brooches, watches, inlaid mother-of-pearl cabinets 
— an amazing congeries of valuables heaped together. 

“ Well, now ! ” shouted Cruel Coppinger. “ What say 
you to the gay things there ? Choose — take what you 
will. I care not for them one rush. What do you most 
admire, most covet ? Put out both hands and take — take 
all you would have, fill your lap, carry off all you can. It 
is yours.” 

Judith drew hastily back and relocked the door. 

“ What have you taken ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Nothing ? Take what you will ; I give it freely.” 

“ I cannot take anything, though I thank you. Captain 
Coppinger, for your kind and generous offer.” 

“ You will accept nothing ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ That is like you. You do it to anger me. As you 
throw hard words at me — coward, wrecker, robber — and 
as you dash broken glass, buttons, buckles, in my face, 
so do you throw back my offers.” 

“ It is not through ingratitude ” 

‘‘ I care not through w^hat it is ! You seek to anger, 
and not to please me. Why will you take nothing? 
There are beautiful things there to charm a woman.” 

“ I am not a woman ; I am a little girl.” 

“Why do you refuse me ? ” 

“ For one thing, because I want none of the things 
there, beautiful and costly though they be.” 

“ And for the other thing ? ” 

“ For the other thing— excuse my plain speaking— I do 
not think they have been honestly got.” 

“ By heavens ! ” shouted Coppinger. “There you at- 
tack and stab at me again. I like your plainness of speech. 
You do not spare me. I would not have you false and 
double like old Dunes.” 

“ Oh, Captain Coppinger ! I give you thanks from the 


•74 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


depths of my heart. It is kindly intended, and it is so 
^ood and noble of you, I feel that ; for I have hurt you 
and reduced you to the state in which you now are, and 
yet you offer me the best thing’s in your house — things 
of priceless value. I acknowledge your goodness ; but 
just because I know I do not deserve this goodness I 
must decline what you offer.” 

“ Then come here and give me the key.” 

She stepped lightly over the floor to him and handed 
him the great iron key to his store chamber. As she did 
so he caught her hand, bowed his dark head, and kissed 
her fingers. 

“ Captain Coppinger ! ” She started back, trembling, 
and snatched her hand from him. 

“ What ! have I offended you again ? Why not % A 
subject kisses the hand of his queen ; and I am a subject, 
and you— -you my queen.” 


CHAPTEK XI. 

JESSAMINE. 

“ How are you, old man ? ” 

“ MMdlin’, thanky ’ ; and how be you, gov’nor ? ” 

“ Middlin’ also ; and your missus ? ” 

“ Only sadly. I fear she’s goin’ slow but sure the way 
of all flesh.” 

“ Bless us ! ’Tis a trouble and expense them sort o’ 
things. Now to work, shall we ? What do you figure 
up?” 

“ And you ? ” 

“ Oh, well, I’m not here on reg’lar business. Huntin’ 
on my own score to-day.” 

“ Oh, ay ! Nice port this.” 

“Best the old fellow had in his cellar. I told the 
executrix I should like the taste of it, and advise there- 
on.” 

The valuers for dilapidations, vulgarly termed dilapi- 
dators, were met in the dining-room of the deserted par- 
sonage. Mr. Scantlebray was on one side, Mr. Cargreen 
on the other. Mr. Scantlebray was on that of the “ or- 
phings,” as he termed his clients, and Mr. Cargreen on 
that of the Bev. Mr. Mules, the recently nominated rec- 
tor to S. Enodoc. 

Mr. Scantlebray was a tall, lean man, with light gray 
eyes, a red face, and legs and arms that he shook every 
now and then as though they were encumbrances to his 
trunk and he was going to shake them off, as a poodle 
issuing from a bath shakes the water out of his locks. 
Mr. Cargreen was a bullet-headed man, with a white 
neckcloth, gray whiskers, a solemn face, and a sort of 
perpetual “ Let-us-pray ” expression on his lips and in 
his eyes — a composing of his interior faculties and ab- 
straction from worldly concerns. 

“ I am here,” said Mr. Scantlebray, “ as adviser and 
friend — you understand, old man — of the orphings and 
their haunt.” 


76 


IK THE ROAR OP THE SEA. 


. “ And I,” said Mr. Carg'reen, “ am ditto to the incom- 
ing’ rector.” 

“ And what do you get out of this visit ? ” asked Mr. 
Scantlebray, who was a frank man. 

“Only three guineas as a fee,” said Mr. Cargreen. 
“ And you ? ” 

“Ditto, old man — three guineas. You understand, 1 
am not here as valuer to-day.” 

“ Nor I — only as adviser.” 

“ Exactly ! Taste this port. ’Taint bad — out of the 
cellar of the old chap. Told auntie I must have it, to 
taste and give opinion on.” 

“ And what are you going to do to-day ? ” 

“ I’m going to have one or two little things pulled 
down, and other little things put to rights.” 

“ Humph ! I’m here to see nothing is pulled down.” 

“We won’t quarrel. There’s the conservatory, and 
the linney in Willa Park.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Cargreen, shaking his head. 

“Now look here, old man,” said Mr. Scantlebray. 
“ You let me tear the linney down, and I’ll let the con- 
servatory stand.” 

“ The conservatory ” 

“I know; the casement of the best bedroom went 
through the roof of it. I’ll mend the roof and repaint it. 
You can try the timber, and find it rotten, and lay on 
dilapidations enough to cover a new conservatory. Pass 
the linney ; I want to make pickings out of that.” 

It may perhaps be well to let the reader understand 
the exact situation of the two men engaged in sipping 
port. Directly it was known that a rector had been 
nominated to S. Enodoc, Mr. Cargreen, a Bodmin valuer, 
agent, and auctioneer, had written to the happy nomi- 
nee, Mr. Mules, of Birmingham, inclosing his card in 
the letter, to state that he was a member of an old-estab- 
lished firm, enjoying the confidence, not to say the 
esteem of the principal county families in the north of 
Cornwall, that he was a sincere Churchman, that de- 
ploring, as a true son of the Church, the prevalence of 
Dissent, he felt it his duty to call the attention of the 
reverend gentleman to certain facts that concerned him, 
but especially the Chukch, and facts that he himself, as 
8. devoted son of the Church, on conviction, after mature 
study of its tenets, felt called upon, in the interest of 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


77 


that Church he so had at heart, to notice. He had heard, 
said Mr. Cargreen, that the outgoing* parties from S. 
Enodoc were removing, or causing to be removed, or 
were proposing to remove, certain fixtures in the parson- 
age, and certain out-buildings, barns, tenements, sheds, 
and linneys on the glebe and parsonage premises, to the 
detriment of its value, inasmuch as that such removal 
would be prejudicial to the letting of the land, and 
render it impossible for the incoming rector to farm it 
himself without re-erecting the very buildings now in 
course of destruction, or which were purposed to be de- 
stroyed : to wit, certain out-buildings, barns, cattle-sheds, 
and linneys, together with other tenements that need 
not be specified. /Mr. Cargreen added that, roughly 
speaking, the dilap dations of these buildings, if allowed 
to stand, might be' assessed at £300 ; but that, if pulled 
down, it would cost the new rector about £700 to re-erect 
them, and their re-erection would be an imperative ne- 
cessity. Mr. Cargreen had himself, personally, no inter- 
est in the matter; but, as a true son of the Church, etc., 
etc. 

By return of post Mr. Cargreen received an urgent re- 
quest from the Kev. Mr. Mules to act as his agent, and 
to act with precipitation in the protection of his interests. 

In the meantime Mr. Scantlebray had not been neg- 
lectful of other people’s interest. He had written to 
Miss Dionysia Trevisa to inform her that, though he did 
not enjoy a present acquaintance, it was the solace and 
joy of his heart to remember that some years ago, before 
that infelicitous marriage of Mr. Trevisa, which had led 
to Miss Dionysia’s leaving the rectory, it had been his 
happiness to meet her at the house of a mutual acquaint- 
ance, Mrs. Scaddon, where he had respectfully, and, at 
this distance of time, he ventured to add, humbly and 
hopelessly admired her ; that, as he was riding past the 
rectory he had chanced to observe the condition of dila- 
pidation certain tenements, pig-sties, cattle-sheds, and 
other out-buildings were in, and that, though it in no 
way concerned him, yet, for auld lang syne’s sake, and a 
desire to assist one whom he had always venerated, and, 
at this distance of time might add, had admired, he ven- 
tured to offer a suggestion : to wit. That a number of 
unnecessary out-buildings should be torn down and 
utterly effaced before a new rector was nominated, and 


rs 


m THE ROATt OF THE SEA. 


had appointed a valuer; also that certain obvious re- 
pairs should be undertaken and done at once, so as to 
g'ive to the parsonage the appearance of being in excel- 
lent order, and cut away all excuse for piling up dilapi- 
dations. Mr. Scantlebray ventured humbly to state that 
he had had a good deal of experience with those gentle- 
men who acted as valuers for dilapidations, and with 
pain he was obliged to add that a more unscrupulous 
set of men it had never been his bad fortune to come 
into contact with. He ventured to assert that, were he 
to tell all he knew, or only half of what he knew, as to 
their proceedings in valuing for dilapidations, he would 
make both of Miss Trevisa’s ears tingle. 

At once Miss Dionysia entreated Mr. Scantlebray to 
superintend and carry out with expedition such repairs 
and such demolitions as he deemed expedient, so as to 
forestall the other party. 

“ Chicken ! ” said Mr. Cargreen. “ That’s what I’ve 
brought for my lunch.” 

“And ’am is what I’ve got,” said Mr. Scantlebray. 
“ They’ll go lovely together.” Then, in a loud tone — 
“ Come in ! ” 

The door opened, and a carpenter entered with a piece 
of deal board in his hand. 

“ You won’t mind looking out of the winder, Mr. Car- 
green % ” said Mr. Scantlebray. “ Some business that’s 
partick’ler my own. You’ll find the jessamine — the 
white jessamine — smells beautiful.” 

Mr. Cargreen rose, and went to the dining-room win- 
dow that was embowered in white jessamine, then in full 
fiower and fragrance. 

“What is it, Davy?” 

“ Well, sir, I ain’t got no dry old board for the floor 
where it be rotten, nor for the panelling of the doors 
where broken through.” 

“ No board at all ? ” 

“ No, sir — all is green. Only cut last winter.” 

“ Won’t it take paint ? ” 

“Well, sir, not well. I’ve dried this piece by the 
kitchen fire, and I find it’ll take the paint for a time.” 

“ Kun, dry all the panels at the kitchen fire, and then 
paint ’em.” 

“ Thanky’, sir ; but how about the boarding of the 
floor ? The boards’ll warp and start.” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


79 


“ Look here, Davy, that gentleman who’s at the winder 
a-smelling to the jassamine is the surveyor and valuer to 
t’other party. I fancy you’d best go round outside and 
have a word with him and coax him to pass the boards.” 

“ Come in ! ” in a loud voice. Then there entered a 
man in a cloth coat, with very bushy whiskers. “ How 
d’y’ do, Spargo ? What do you want ? ” 

“ Well, Mr. Scantlebray, I understand the linney and 
cow-shed is to be pulled down.” 

“ So it is, Spargo.” . 

“ Well, sir ! ” Mr. Spargo drew his sleeve across his 
mouth. “ There’s a lot of very fine oak timber in it — 
beams, and such like — that I don’t mind buying. As a 
timber merchant I could find a use for it.” 

“ Say ten pound.” 

“ Ten pun’ ! That’s a long figure ! ” 

“ Not a pound too much ; but come — we’ll say eight.” 

“ I reckon I’d thought five.” 

“ Five ! pshaw ! It’s dirt cheap to you at eight.” 

“ Why to me, sir ? ” 

“ Why, because the new rector will want to rebuild 
both cattle-shed and linney, and he’ll have to go to you 
for timber.” 

“ But suppose he don’t, and cuts down some on the 
glebe ? ” 

‘‘ No, Spargo — not a bit. There at the winder, smell- 
ing to the jessamine, is the new rector’s adviser and 
agent. Go round by the front door into the garding, 
and say a word to him — you understand, and — ” Mr. 
Scantlebray tapped his palm. “ Do now go round and 
have a sniff of the jessamine, Mr. Spargo, and I don’t 
fancy Mr. Cargreen will advise the rector to use home- 
grown timber. He’ll tell him it sleeps away, gets the 
rot, comes more expensive in the long run.” 

The valuer took a wing of chicken and a little ham, 
and then shouted, with his mouth full — “ Come in ! ” 

The door opened and admitted a farmer. 

“ How do, Mr. Joshua ? middlin’ ? ” 

“ Middlin’, sir, thanky’.” 

“ And what have you come about, sir ? ” 

“ Well — Mr. Scantlebray, sir ! I fancy you ha’n’t of- 
fered me quite enough for carting away of all the rum- 
mage from them buildings as is coming down. ’Tis a 
terrible lot of stone, and I’m to take ’em so far away.” 


80 


IN THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Why not ? ” 

“ Weil, sir, it’s such a lot of work for the bosses, and 
the pay so poor.” 

“ Not a morsel, Joshua — not a morsel.” 

“ Well, sir, I can’t do it at the price.” 

“Oh, Joshua! Joshua! I thought you’d a better eye 
to the future. Don’t you see that the new rector will 
have to build up all these out-buildings again, and where 
else is he to get stone except out of your quarry, or some 
of the old stone you have carted away, which you will 
have the labor of carting back *? ” 

“ Well, sir, I don’t know.” 

“ But I do, Joshua.” 

“ The new rector might go elsewhere for stone.” 

“ Not he. Look there, at the winder is Mr. Car- 
green, and he’s in with the new parson, like a brother-- 
knows his very soul. The new parson comes from Bir- 
mingham. What can he tell about building-stone here ? 
Mr. Cargreen will tell him yours is the only stuff that 
ain’t powder.” 

“ But, sir, he may not rebuild.” 

“ He must. Mr. Cargreen will tell him that he can’t 
let the glebe without buildings; and he can’t build 
without your quarry stone : and if he has your quarry 
stone — why, you will be given the carting also. Are you 
satisfied ? ” 

“ Yes — if Mr. Cargreen would be sure ” 

“He’s there at the winder, a-smelling to the jessa- 
mine. You go round and have a talk to him, and make 
him understand — you know. He’s a little hard o’ hearing ; 
but the drum o’ his ear is here,” said Scantlebray, tap- 
ping his palm. 

Mr. Scantlebray was now left to himself to discuss the 
chicken wing — the liver wing he had taken — and sip the 
port ; a conversation was going on in an undertone at 
the window ; but that concerned Mr. Cargreen and not 
himself, so he paid no attention to it. 

After a while, however, when this hum ceased, he 
turned his head, and called out : 

“ Old man ! how about your lunch ? ” 

“ I’m coming.” 

“ And you found the jessamine very sweet ? ” 

“ Beautiful ! beautiful ! ” 

“ Taste this port. It is not what it should be ; some 


m THE ROAR OF TEE SEA. 


81 


the old fellow laid in when he could afford it — ^before he 
married. It is passed, and going* back ; should have 
been drunk five years ago.” 

Mr. Cargreen came to the table, and seated himself. 
Then Mr. Scantlebray flapxjed his arms, shook out his 
legs, and settled himself to the enjoyment of the lunch, 
in the society of Mr. Cargreen. . 

“ The merry-thought 1 Pull with me, old man ? ” 

“ Certainly ! ” 

Mr. Scantlebray and Mr. Cargreen were engaged on 
the merry-thought, each endeavoring to steal an advan- 
tage on the other, by working the fingers up the bone 
unduly, when the window was darkened. 

Without desisting from pulling at the merry -thought 
each turned his head, and Scantlebray at once let go his 
end of the bone. At the window stood Captain Cop- 
pinger looking in at the couple, with his elbow resting 
on the window-sill. 

Mr. Scantlebray flattered himself that he was on good 
terms with all the world, and he at once with hilarity sa- 
luted the Captain by raising the fingers greased by the 
bone to his brow. 

“ Didn’t reckon on seeing you here, Cap’n.” 

“ I suppose not.” 

“ Come and pick a bone with us ? ” 

Coppinger laughed a short snort through his nostrils. 

“ I have a bone to pick with you already.” 

“ Never ! no, never ! ” 

“ You have forced yourself on Miss Trevisa to act as 
her agent and valuer in the matter of dilapidations.” 

“ Not forced. Captain. She asked me to give her 
friendly counsel. We are old acquaintances.” 

“ I will not waste words. Give me her letter. She no 
longer requires your advice and counsel. I am going to 
act for her.” 

“ You, Cap’n ! Lor’ bless me ! You don’t mean to 
say so ! ” 

“Yes. I will protect her against being pillaged. 
She is my housekeeper.” 

“ But see ! she is only executrix. She gets nothing 
out of the property.” 

“ No — but her niece and nephew do. Take it that I 
act for them. Give me up her letter.” 

Mr. Scantlebray hesitated. . 


82 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


“ But, Cap’n, I’ve been to vast expense. I’ve entered 
into agreements ” 

“ With whom?” 

“ With carpenter and mason about the repairs.” 

“ Give me the agreements.” 

“Not agreements exactly. They sent me in their 
estimates, and I accepted them, and set them to work.” 

“ Give me the estimates.” 

Mr. Scantlebray flapped all his limbs, and shook his 
head. 

“ You don’t suppose I carry these sort of things about 
with me ? ” 

“ I have no doubt whatever they are in your pocket.” 
Scantlebray fldgeted. 

“ Cap’n, try this port — a little going back, but not to 
be sneezed at.” 

Coppinger leaned forward through the window. 

“ Who is that man with you ? ” 

“ Mr. Cargreen.” 

“ What is he here for ? ” 

“ I am agent for the Eeverend Mules, the newly ap- 
pointed rector,” said Mr. Cargreen, with some dignity. 

“ Then I request you both to step to the window to me.” 

The two men looked at each other. Scantlebray 
jumped up, and Cargreen followed. They stood in the 
window-bay at a respectful distance from Cruel Coppin- 
ger. 

“ I suppose you know who I am ? ” said the latter, fix- 
ing his eyes on Cargreen. 

“ I believe I can form a guess.” 

“ And your duty to your client is to make out as bad 
a case as you can against the two children. They have 
had just one thousand pounds left them. You are going 
to get as much of that away from them as you are per- 
mitted.” 

“ My good sir — allow me to explain ” 

“ There is no need,” said Coppinger. “ Suffice it that 
you are one side. I — Cruel Coppinger — on the other. 
Do you understand what that means ? ” 

Mr. Cargreen became alarmed, his face became very 
blank. 

“ I am not a man to waste words. I am not a man that 
many in Cornwall would care to have as an adversary. 
Do you ever travel at night, Mv, Cargreen ? ” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


83 


‘‘ Yes, sir, sometimes.” 

“ Through the lanes and along the lonely roads ? ” 

“ Perhaps, sir — now and then.” 

“ So do I,” said Coppinger. He drew a pistol from his 
pocket, and played with it. The two “ dilapidators ” 
shrank back. “ So do I,” said Coppinger ; “ but I never 
go unarmed. I would advise you to do the same — if you 
are my adversary.” 

“ I hope, Captain, that — that ” 

“ If those children sufier through you more than what 
I allow ” — Coppinger drew up his one shoulder that he 
could move — “ I should advise you to consider what Mrs. 
Cargreen will have to live on when a widow.” Then he 
turned to Scantlebray, who was sneaking behind the 
window-curtain. 

“Miss Trevisa’s letter, authorizing you to act for 
her ? ” 

Scantlebray, with shaking hand, groped for his pocket- 
book. 

“ And the two agreements or estimates you signed.” 

Scantlebray gave him the letter. 

“The agreements also.” 

Nervously the surveyor groped again, and reluctantly 
produced them. Captain Coppinger opened them with 
his available hand. 

“ What is this ? Five pounds in pencil added to each, 
and then summed up in the total ? What is the mean- 
ing of that, pray ? ” 

Mr. Scantlebray again endeavored to disappear behind 
the curtain. 

“ Come forward ! ” shouted Captain Cruel, striking the 
window-sill with the pistol. 

Scantlebray jumped out of his retreat at once. 

What is the meaning of these two five pounds ? ” 

“Well, sir — Captain — it is usual; every one does it. 
It is my — what d’y’ call it ? — consideration for accepting 
the estimates.” 

“ And added to each, and then charged to the orphans, 
who pay you to act in their interest — so they pay wit- 
tingly, directly, and unwittingly, indirectly. Well for 
you and for Mrs. Scantlebray that I release you of your 
obligation to act for Mother Dunes — I mean Miss Tre- 
visa.” 

“ Sir,” said Cargreen, “ under the circumstances, under 


84 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


intimidation, I decline to sully my fingers with the husi 
ness. I shall withdraw.” 

“ No, you shall not,” said Cruel Coppinger, resolutely. 
“ You shall act, and act as I approve ; and in the end it 
shall not be to your disadvantage.” 

Then, without a word of farewell, he stood up, slipped 
the pistol back into his pocket, and strode away. 

Mr. Cargreen had become white, or rather, the color of 
dough, ^ter a moment he recovered himself somewhat, 
and, turning to Scantlebray, with a sarcastic air, said — 

“ I hope you enjoy the jessamine. They don’t smell 
particularly sweet to me.” 

“ Orful ! ” groaned Scantlebray. He shook himself — 
almost shaking oft’ all his limbs in the convulsion — “ Old 
man — them jessamines is orful 1 ” 


CHAPTEK Xn. 


THE CAYE. 

Some weeks slipped by without bringing to Judith 
any accession of anxiety. She did not go again to Pen- 
tyre Glaze, but her aunt came once or twice in the week 
to Polzeath to see her. Moreover, Miss Dionysia’s man- 
ner toward her was somewhat less contrary and vexatious, 
and she seemed to put on a conciliatory manner, as far as 
was possible for one so angular and crabbed. Gracious 
she could not be ; nature had made it as impossible for 
her to be gracious in manner as to be lovely in face and 
graceful in movement. 

Moreover, Judith observed that her aunt looked at her 
with an expression of perplexity, as though seeking in 
her to find an answer to a riddle that vexed her brain. 
And so it was. Aunt Dunes could not understand the 
conduct of Coppinger toward Judith and her brother. 
Nor could she understand how a child like her niece could 
have faced and defied a man of whom she herself stood 
in abject fear. Judith had behaved to the smuggler in 
a way that no man in the whole country-side would have 
ventured to behave. She had thrown him at her feet, 
half killed him, and yet Cruel Coppinger did not resent 
what had been done ; on the contrary, he went out of his 
way to interfere in the interest of the orphans. He was 
not the man to concern himself in other people’s affairs ; 
why should he take trouble on behalf of Judith and her 
brother ? That he did it out of consideration for herself, 
Miss Trevisa had not the assurance to believe. 

Aunt Dunes put a few searching questions to Judith, 
but drew from her nothing that explained the mystery. 
The girl frankly told her of her visit to the Glaze and 
interview with the crippled smuggler, of his offer to her 
of some of his spoil, and of her refusal to receive a pres- 
ent from him. Miss Trevisa approved of her niece’s 
conduct in this respect. It would not have befitted her 


86 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


to accept anything. Judith, however, did not communi- 
cate to her aunt the closing scene in that interview. She 
did not tell her that Coppinger had kissed her hand, nor 
his excuse for having done so, that he was offering hom- 
age to a queen. 

For one thing, Judith did not attach any importance 
to this incident. She had always heard that Coppinger 
was a wild and insolent man, wild and insolent in his 
dealings with his fellow-men, therefore doubtless still 
more so in his treatment of defenceless women. He had 
behaved to her in the rude manner in which he would 
behave to any peasant girl or sailor’s daughter who 
caught his fancy, and she resented his act as an indig- 
nity, and his excuse for it as a prevarication. And, pre- 
cisely, because he had offended her maidenly dignity, 
she blushed to mention it, even to her aunt, resolving in 
her own mind not to subject herself to the like again. 

Miss Trevisa, on several occasions, invited Judith to 
come and see her at Pentyre Glaze, but the girl always 
declined the invitation. 

Judith’s estimate of Cruel Coppinger was modified. 
He could not be the utter reprobate she had always held 
him to be. She fully acknowledged that there was an 
element of good in the man, otherwise he would not have 
forgiven the injury done him, nor would he have inter- 
fered to protect her and Jamie from the fraud and extor- 
tion of the “ dilapidators.” She trusted that the stories 
she had heard of Coppinger’s wild and savage acts were 
false, or overcolored. Her dear father had been misled 
by reports, as she had been, and it was possible that 
Coppinger had not really been the impediment in her 
father’s way that the late rector had supposed. 

Jamie was happy. He was even, in a fashion, making 
himself useful. He helped Mr. Menaida in his bird- 
stuffing on rainy days ; he did more, he ran about the 
cliffs, learned the haunts of the wild-fowl, ascertained 
where they nested, made friends with Preventive men, 
and some of those fellows living on shore, without any 
very fixed business, who rambled over the country with 
their guns, and from these he was able to obtain birds 
that he believed Mr. Menaida wanted. Judith was glad 
that the boy should be content, and enjoy the fresh air 
and some freedom. She would have been less pleased 
had she seen the companions Jamie made. But the men 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


87 


had rough good-humor, and were willing to oblige the 
half-witted boy, and they encouraged him to go with 
them shooting, or to sit with them in their huts. 

J amie manifested so strong a distaste for books, and 
lesson time being one of resistance, pouting, tears, and 
failures, that Judith thought it not amiss to put off the 
resumption of these irksome tasks for a little while, and 
to let the boy have his run of holidays. She fancied that 
the loss of his father and of his old home preyed on him 
more than was actually the case, and believed that by 
giving him freedom till the first pangs were over, he 
might not suffer in the way that she had done. 

For a fortnight or three weeks Judith’s time had been 
so fully engaged at the parsonage, that she could not 
have devoted much of it to Jamie, even had she thought 
it desirable to keep him to his lessons ; nor could she 
be with him much. She did not press him to accompany 
her to the rectory, there to spend the time that she was 
engaged sorting her father’s letters and memoranda, his 
account-books and collection of extracts made from vol- 
umes he had borrowed, as not only would it be tedious 
to him, but he would distract her mind. She must see 
that he was amused, and must also provide that he was 
not at mischief. She did take him with her on one or 
two occasions, and found that he had occupied himself in 
disarranging much that she had put together for the sale. 

But she would not allow him wholly to get out of the 
way of looking to her as his companion, and she aban- 
doned an afternoon to him now and then, as her work 
became less arduous, to walk with him on the cliffs or in 
the lanes, to listen to his childish prattle, and throw her- 
self into his new pursuits. The link between them must 
not be allowed to become relaxed, and, so far as in her 
lay, she did her utmost to maintain it in its former se- 
curity. But, with his father’s death, and his removal to 
Mr. Menaida’s cottage, a new world had opened to Jamie ; 
he was brought into association with men and boys whom 
he had hardly known by sight previously, and without 
any wish to disengage himself from his sister’s author- 
ity, he was led to look to others as comrades, and to lis- 
ten to and follow their promptings. 

“ Come, Jamie,” said Judith, one day. “ Now I really 
have some hours free, and I will go a stroll with you o^ 
the downs,” 


88 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


The boy jumped with pleasure, and caught her hand. 

“ I may take Tib with me ? ” 

“ Oh yes, certainly, dear.” 

Tib was a puppy that had been given to Jamie by one 
of his new acquaintances. 

The day was fresh. Clouds driving before the wind, 
now obscuring the sun and threatening rain, then clear- 
ing and allowing the sun to turn the sea green and gild 
the land. Owing to the breeze the sea was ruffled and 
strewn with breakers shaking their white foam. 

“ I am going to show you something I have found, 
Ju,” said the boy. “ You will follow, will you not ? ” 

“Lead the way. What is it ? ” 

“ Come and see. I found it by myself. I shan’t tell 
any one but you.” 

He conducted his sister down the cliffs to the beach 
of a cove. Judith halted a moment to look along the 
coast with its mighty, sombre cliffs, and the sea glancing 
with sun or dulled by shadow to Tintagel Head stand- 
ing up at the extreme point to the northeast, with the 
white surf lashing and heaving around it. Then she 
drew her skirts together, and descended by the narrow 
path 'along which, with the lightness and confidence of 
a kid, Jamie was skipping. 

“Jamie!” she said. “Have you seen? — there is a 
ship standing in the offing.” 

“ Yes ; she has been there all the morning.” 

Then she went further. 

The cove was small, with precipitous cliffs rising from 
the sand to the height of two to three hundred feet. 
The seagulls screamed and flashed to and fro, and the 
waves foamed and threw up their waters lashed into 
froth as white and light as the feathers on the gulls. In 
the concave bay the roar of the plunging tide reverber- 
ated from every side. Neither the voice of Jamie, when 
he shouted to his sister from some feet below, nor the 
barking of his little dog that ran with him, could be dis- 
tinguished by her. 

The descent was rapid and rugged, yet not so pre- 
cipitous but that it could be gone over by asses or mules. 
EvMence that these creatures had passed that way re- 
mained in the impression of their hoofs in the soil, wher- 
ever a soft stratum intervened between the harder shelves 
of the rock, and had crumbled on the path into clay. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


89 


Judith observed that several paths— not all mule-paths 
—converged lower down at intervals in the way by 
which she descended, so that it would be possible, ap- 
parently, to reach the sand from various points in the 
down, as well as by the main track by which she was 
stepping to the beach. 

“Jamie!” called Judith, as she stood on the last 
shoulder of rock before reaching the beach over a wave- 
washed and smoothed surface. “ Jamie ! I can see that 
same ship from here,” 

But her brother could not hear her. He was throwing 
stones for the dog to run after, and meet a wa^^e as it 
rushed in. 

The tide was going out : it had marked its highest 
elevation by a bow of foam and strips of dark seaweed 
and broken shells. Judith stepped along this line, and 
picked out the largest ribbon of weed she could find. 
She would hang it in her bedroom to tell her the 
weather. The piece that had been wont to act as ba- 
rometer was old, and, besides, it had been lost in the 
recent shift and confusion. 

Jamie came up to her. 

“ Now, Ju, mind and watch me, or you will lose me 
altogether.” 

Then he ran forward, with Tib dancing and yelping 
round him. Presently he scrambled up a shelf of rock 
inclined from the sea, and up after him, yelping, scram- 
bled Tib. In a moment both disappeared over the 
crest. 

Judith went up to the ridge and called to her brother. 

“ I cannot climb this, Jamie.” 

But in another moment, a hundred yards to her right, 
round the extremity of the reef, came Tib and his mas- 
ter, the boy dancing and laughing, the dog ducking liis 
head, shaking his ears, and, all but laughing also, evi- 
dently enjoying the fun as much as Jamie. 

“ This way, Ju I ” shouted the boy, and signed to his 
sister. She could not hear his voice, but obeyed his 
gestures. The reef ran athwart the top of the bay, like 
the dorsal, jagged ridge of a crocodile half buried in the 
sand. 

Judith drew her skirts higher and closer, as the sand 
was wet, and there were pools by the rock. Then, hold- 
ing her ribbon of seaweed by the harsh, knotted root, 


90 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


torn up along with the leaf, and trailing it behind her, 
she followed her brother, reached the end of the rock, 
turned and went in the traces of J amie and Tib in the 
sand parallel to her former course. 

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, on the right hand 
there opened before her, in the face of the cliff, a cave, 
the entrance to which was completely masked by the 
ridge she had turned. Into this cave went Jamie with 
his dog. 

“ I am not obliged to follow you there ! ” protested 
Judith ; but he made such vehement signs to her to fol- 
low him that she good-humoredly obeyed. 

The cave ran in a long way, at first at no great incline, 
then it became low overhead, and immediately after 
the fioor inclined rapidly upward, and the vault took 
a like direction. Moreover, light appeared in front. 
Here, to Judith’s surprise, she saw a large boat, painted 
gray, furnished with oars and boat-hook. She was at- 
tached by a chain to a staple in the rock. Judith exam- 
ined her with a little uneasiness. No name was on her. 

The sides of the cave at this point formed shelves, not 
altogether natural, and that these were made use of was 
evident, because on them lay staves of broken casks, a 
four-flanged boat-anchor, and some oars. Out of the 
main trunk cave branched another that was quite dark, 
and smaller ; in this, Judith, whose eyes were becoming 
accustomed to the twilight, thought she saw the bows of 
a smaller boat, also painted gray. 

“ Jamie ! ” said Judith, now in serious alarm ; “ we 
ought not to be here. It is not safe. Do — do come 
away at once.” 

“ Why, what is there to harm us ? ” 

“ My dear, do come away.” She turned to retrace her 
steps, but Jamie stopped her. 

“ Not that way, Ju ! I have another by which to get 
out. Follow me still.” 

He led the way up the steep rubble slope, and the 
light fell fuller from above. The cave was one of those 
into which when the sea rolls and chokes the entrance, 
the compressed air is driven out by a second orifice. 

They reached a sort of well or shaft, at the bottom of 
which they stood, but it did not open vertically but 
bent over somewhat, so that from below the sky could 
not be seen, though the light entered. A narrow path 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


91 


was traced in the side, and up this Jamie and the dog 
scrambled, followed by Judith, who was most anxious to 
escape from a place which she had no doubt was one of 
the shelter caves of the smugglers — perhaps of Cruel 
Coppinger, whose house was not a mile distant. 

The ascent was steep, the path slippery in places, and 
therefore dangerous. Jamie made nothing of it, nor did 
the little dog, but Judith picked her way with care ; she 
had a good steady head, and did not feel giddy, but she 
was not sure that her feet might not slide in the clay 
where wet with water that dripped from the sides. As 
she neared the entrance she saw that hartstongue and 
maidenhair fern had rooted themselves in the sheltered 
nooks of this tunnel. 

After a climb of a hundred feet she came out on a 
ledge in the face of the cliff above the bay, to see, with 
a gasp of dismay, her brother in the hand of Cruel Cop- 
pinger, the boy paralyzed with fear so that he could 
neither stir nor cry out. 

“What!” exclaimed the Captain, “you here?” as he 
saw Judith stand before him. 

The puppy was barking and snapping at his boots. 
Coppinger let go Jamie, stooped and caught the dog by 
the neck. “ Look at me,” said the smuggler sternly, 
addressing the frightened boy. Then he swung the dog 
above his head and dashed it down the cliffs ; it caught, 
then rolled, and fell out of sight — certainly with the life 
beaten out of it. 

“ This will be done to you,” said he ; “I do not say 
that I would do it. She ”— he waved his hand toward 
Judith— “ stands between us. But if any of the fifteen 
to twenty men who know this place and come here 
should chance to meet you as I have met you, he would 
treat you without compunction as I have treated that 
dog. And if he were to catch you below — you have 
heard of Wyvill, the Preventive man ?— you would fare 
as did he. Thank your sister that you are alive now. 
Go on— that way— up the cliff.” He pointed with a 
telescope he held. 

Jamie fied up the steep path like the wind. 

“Judith,” said Coppinger, “will you stand surety that 
he does not tell tales ? ” 

“ I do not believe he will say anything.” 

“I do not ask you to be silent. I know you will not 


92 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


speak. But if you mistrust his power to hold his 
tong-ue, send him away — send him out of the country — 
as you love him.” 

“He shall never come here again,” said Judith, 
earnestly. 

“ That is well ; he owes his life to you.” 

Judith noticed that Cruel Coppinger’s left arm was no 
more in a sling, nor in bands. 

He saw that she observed this, and smiled grimly. “ I 
have my freedom with this arm once more — for the first 
time to-day.” 


CHAPTEK Xm. 


IN THE DUSK. 

“ Kicking* along, Mr. Menaida, old man ? ” asked Mr. 
Scantlebray, in his loud, harsh voice, as he shook him- 
self inside the door of Uncle Zachie’s workshop. “ And 
the little ’uns ? Late in life to become nurse and keep 
the bottle and pap-bowl going, eh, old man ? How’s the 
orphings? Eating their own weight of victuals at two- 
pence-ha’penny a head, eh ? My experience of orphings 
isn’t such as would make a man hilarious, and feel that 
he was filling his pockets.” 

“ Sit you down, sir ; you’ll find a chair. Not that one, 
there’s a dab of arsenical paste got on to that. Sit you 
down, sir, over against me. Glad to see you and have 
some one to talk to. Here am I slaving all day, worn to 
fiddlestrings. There’s Squire Kashleigh, of Menabilly, 
must have a glaucous gull stuffed at once that he has 
shot ; and there’s Sir John St. Aubyn, of Clowance, must 
have a case of kittiwakes by a certain day ; and an in- 
stitution in London wants a genuine specimen of a Cor- 
nish chough ? Do they think I’m a tradesman to be 
ordered about ? That I’ve not an income of my own, 
and that I am dependent on my customers'? I’ll do no 
more. I’ll smoke and play the piano. I’ve no time to 
exchange a word with any one. Come, sit down. What’s 
the news ? ” 

“ It’s a bad world,” said Mr. Scantlebray, setting him- 
self into a chair. “That’s to say, the world is well 
enough if it warn’t for there being too many rascals in 
it. I consider it’s a duty on all right-thinking men to 
clear them off.” 

“ Well, the world would be better if we had the mak- 
ing of it,” acquiesced Mr. Menaida. “ Bless you ! I’ve 
no time for anything. I like to do a bit of bird-stuffing 
just as a sort of relaxation after smoking, but to be 
forced to work more than one (3ares— I won’t do it ! Be- 


94 


TN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


sides, it is not wholesome. I shall be poisoned with 
arsenic. I must have some antidote. So will you, sir 
— eh ? A drop of real first-rate cognac ? ” 

“Thank you, sir — old man — I don’t mind dipping a 
feather and drawing it across my lips.” 

Jamie had been so frightened by the encounter with 
Cruel Coppinger that he was thoroughly upset. He was 
a timid, nervous child, and Judith had persuaded him 
to go to bed. She sat by him, holding his hand, com- 
forting him as best she might, when he sobbed over the 
loss of his pup, and cheering him when he clung to her 
in terror at the reminiscence of the threats of the Cap- 
tain to deal with him as he had with Tib. Judith was 
under no apprehension of his revisiting the cave; he 
had been too thoroughly frightened ever to venture 
there again. She said nothing to impress this on him ; 
all her efforts were directed toward allaying his alarms. 

Just as she hoped that he was dropping off into un- 
consciousness, he suddenly opened his eyes, and said, 
“Ju.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“ I’ve lost the chain.” 

“ What chain, my pretty ? ” 

“ Tib’s chain.” 

The pup had been a trouble when Jamie went with 
the creature through the village or through a farm-yard. 
He would run after and nip the throats of chickens. Tib 
and his master had got into trouble on this account ; 
accordingly Judith had turned out a light steel chain, 
somewhat rusty, and a dog collar from among the sun- 
dries that encumbered the drawers and closets of the 
rectory. This she had given to her brother, and when- 
ever the little dog was near civilization he was obliged 
to submit to the chain. 

Judith, to console Jamie for his loss, had told him 
that in all probability another little dog might be pro- 
cured to be his companion. Alas ! the collar was on 
poor Tib, but she represented to him that if another 
dog were obtained it would be possible to buy or beg a 
collar for him, supposing a collar to be needful. This 
had satisfied Jamie, and he was about to doze off, when 
suddenly he woke to say that the chain was lost,” 

“ Where did you lose the chain, Jamie ? ” 

“ I threw it doww,” * 


IN' THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


95 


“ Why did you do that ? ” 

“ I thought I shouldn’t want it when Tib was gone.” 

“ And where did you throw it ? Perhaps it may be 
found again.” 

“ I won’t go and look for it — indeed I won’t.” He 
shivered and clung to his sister. 

“ Where was it % Perhaps I can find it.” 

“ I dropped it at the top — on the down when I came 
up the steps from — from that man, when he had killed 
Tib.” 

“ You did not throw it over the cliff ? ” 

“ No — I threw it down. I did not think I wanted it 
any more.” 

“ I dare say it may be found. I will go and see.” 

“ No — no ! Don’t, Ju. You might meet that man.” 

Judith smiled. She felt that she was not afraid of 
that man — he would not hurt her. 

As soon as the boy was asleep, Judith descended the 
stairs, leaving the door ajar, that she might hear should 
he wake in a fright, and entering the little sitting-room, 
took up her needles and wool, and seated herself quietly 
by the window, where the last glimmer of twilight 
shone, to continue her work at a jersey she was knitting 
for Jamie’s use in the winter. 

The atmosphere was charged with tobacco-smoke, al- 
most as much as that of the adjoining workshop. There 
was no door between the rooms ; none had been needed 
formerly, and Mr. Menaida did not think of supplying 
one now. It was questionable whether one would have 
been an advantage, as Jamie ran to and fro, and would 
be certain either to leave the door open or to slam it, 
should one be erected. Moreover, a door meant pay- 
ment to a carpenter for timber and labor. There was 
no carpenter in the village, and Mr. Menaida spent no 
more money than he was absolutely obliged to spend, 
and how could he on an annuity of fifty pounds. 

Judith dropped her woolwork in her lap and fell into 
meditation. She reviewed what had just taken place: 
she saw before her again Coppinger, strongly built, with 
his dark face, and eyes that glared into the soul to its 
lowest depths, illumining all, not as the sun, but as the 
lightning, and suffering not a thought, not a feeling to 
remain obscure. 

A second time had Jamie done what angered him, but 


96 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


on this occasion he had curbed his passion and had con- 
tented himself with a threat— nay, not even that— with 
a caution. Pie had expressly told Jamie that he himself 
would not hurt him, but that he ran into danger from 
others. 

She was again looking at Coppinger as he spoke ; she 
saw the changes in his face, the alterations of expression 
in his eyes, in his intonation. She recalled the stern, 
menacing tone in which he had spoken to Jamie, and 
then the inflexion of voice as he referred to her. A dim 
surmise — a surmise she was ashamed to allow could be 
true — rose in her mind and thrilled her with alarm. Was 
it possible that he liked her — liked — she could, she would 
give even in thought no other term to describe that feel- 
ing which she feared might possibly have sprung up in 
his breast. That he liked her — after all she had done ? 
Was that why he had come to the cottage the day after 
his accident i Was that what had prompted the strange 
note sent to her along with the keg of spirits to Uncle 
Zachie ? Was that the meaning of the ofier of the choice 
of all his treasures ? — of the vehemence with which he 
had seized her hand and had kissed it ? AVas that the 
interpretation of those wordf^ of excuse in which he had 
declared her his queen ? If this were so, then much that 
had been enigmatical in his conduct was explained — 
his interference with the valuers for dilapidations, the 
strange manner in which he came across her path almost 
whenever she went to the rectory. And this was the sig- 
nification of the glow in his eyes, the quaver in his voice, 
when he addressed her. 

Was it so? — could it be so ? — that he liked her ? — he — 
Cruel Coppinger— (7r^^c? Coppinger — the terror of the 
country round— liked her, the weakest creature that could 
be found ? 

The thought ‘ of such a possibility frightened her. 
That the wild smuggler-captain should hate her she 
could have borne with better than that he should like 
her. That she was conscious of a sense of pleased sur- 
prise, intermixed with fear, was inevitable, for Judith 
was a woman, and there was something calculated to 
gratify feminine pride in the presumption that the most 
lawless and headstrong man on the Cornish coast should 
have meant what he said when he declared himself her 
subject. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


97 


These thoughts, flushing and paling her cheek, quick- 
ening and staying her j)ulse, so engrossed Judith that, 
though she heard the voices in the adjoining apartment, 
she paid no heed to what was said. 

The wind, which had been fresh all day, was blowing 
stronger. It battered at the window where Judith sat, 
as though a hand struck and brushed over the panes. 

“Hot or cold? ” asked Uncle Zachie. 

“ Thanky’, neither. Water can be got everywhere, but 
such brandy as this, old man— only here.” 

“ You are good to say so. It is Coppinger’s present to 
me.” 

“ Coppinger ! — his very good health, and may he lie 
in clover to-morrow night. He’s had one arm bound, 
I’ve seen ; perhaps he may have two before the night 
grows much older.” 

Mr. Menaida raised his brows. 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ I daresay not,” said Scantlebray. “It’s the duty of 
all right-minded men to clear the world of rascals. I will 
do my duty, please the pigs. Would you mind— just 
another drop ? ” 

After his glass had been refilled, Mr. Scantlebray 
leaned back in his chair and said : 

“ It’s a wicked world, and, between you and me and the 
sugar dissolving at the bottom of my glass, you won’t 
find more rascality anywhere than in my profession, and 
one of the biggest rascals in it is Mr. Cargreen. He’s on 
the side against the orphings. If you’ve the faculty 
of pity in you, pity them — first, because they’ve him 
agin’ ’em, and, secondly, because they’ve lost me as their 
protector. You know whom they got in place of me ? I 
wish them joy of him. But they won’t have his wing over 
them long, I can tell you.” 

“ You think not ? ” 

“Sure of it.” 

“ You think he’ll throw it up ? ” 

“I rather suspect he won’t be at liberty to attend 
to it. He’ll wan’t his full attention to his own con- 
sarns.” 

Mr. Scantlebray tipped off his glass. 

“ It’s going to be a dirty night,” said he. “ You won’t 
mind my spending an hour or two with you, will 
you ? ” 


98 


IN THE ROAB OF THE SEA. 


“ I shall be delighted. Have you any business in the 
place ? ” 

“Business — no. A little pleasure, maybe.” After a 
pause, he said, “But, old man, I don’t mind telling you 
what it is. You are mum, I know. It is this — the 
trap will shut to-night. Snap it goes, and the rats are 
fast. You haven’t been out on the cliffs to-day, have 
you ? ” 

“ No— bless me ! — no, I have not.” 

“ The Black Prince is in the offing.” 

“ The Black Prince ? ” 

“Ay, and she will run her cargo ashore to-night. 
Now, I’m one who knows a little more than most. I’m 
one o’ your straightfor’ard ’uns, always ready to give a 
neighbor a lift in my buggy, and a helping hand to the 
man that is down, and a frank, outspoken fellow am I to 
every one I meet — so that, knocking about as I do, I 
come to know and to hear more than do most, and I hap- 
pen to have learnt into what cove the. Black Prince will 
run her goods. I’ve a bone to pick with Captain Cruel, 
so I’ve let the Preventive men have the contents of my 
information-pottle, and they will be ready to-night for 
Coppinger and the whole party of them. The cutter will 
slip in between them and the sea, and a party will be 
prepared to give them the kindliest welcome by land. 
That is the long and short of it — and, old man, I shall 
dearly love to be there and see the sport. That is why I 
wish to be with you for an hour or two. Will you come 
as well ? ” 

“ Bless me ! ” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “ not I ! You 
don’t suppose Coppinger and his men will allow them- 
selves to be taken easily ? There’ll be a fight.” 

“And pistols go off,” said Scantlebray. “I shall not 
be surprised or sorry if Captain Cruel be washed up one 
of these next tides with a bullet through his head. Eben- 
ezer Wyvill is one of the guards, and he has his brother’s 
death to avenge.” 

“ Do you really believe that Coppinger killed him *? ” 

Mr. Scantlebray shrugged his shoulders. “ It don’t 
matter much what I think, to-night, but what the im- 
pression is that Ebenezer Wyvill carries about with him. 
I imagine that if Ebenezer comes across the Captain he 
won’t speak to him by word of mouth, nor trouble him- 
self to feel for a pair of handcuffs. So — fill my glass 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


99 


a^ain, old man, and well drink to a cold bed and an in- 
digestible lump — somewhere — in his head or in his giz- 
zard — to Cruel Coppinger, and the wiping off of old 
scores — always a satisfaction to honest men.” Scantle- 
bray rubbed his hands. “ It is a satisfaction to the 
conscience — to ferret out the rats sometimes.” 


CHAPTEE XIV. 


WAENING OF DANGER. 

Judith, lost for awhile in her dreams, had been brought 
to a sense of what was the subject of conversation in 
the adjoining room by the mention of Coppinger’s name 
more than once. She heard the desultory talk for 
awhile without giving it much attention, but Scantle- 
bray’s voice was of that harsh and penetrating nature 
that to exclude it the ears must be treated as Ulysses 
treated the ears of his mariners as he passed the rock of 
the Sirens. 

Presently she became alive to J:he danger in which 
Coppinger stood. Scantlebray spoke plainly, and she 
understood. There could be no doubt about it. The 
Black Prince belonged to the Captain, and his dealings 
with and through that vessel were betrayed. Not only 
was Coppinger, as the head of a gang of smugglers, an 
object worth capture to the Preventive men, but the 
belief that he had caused the death of at least one of 
their number had embittered, them against him to such 
an extent that, when the opportunity presented itself 
to them of capturing him red-handed engaged in his 
smuggling transactions, they were certain to deal with 
him in a way much more summary than the processes of 
a court of a justice. The brother of the man who had 
been murdered was among the coast-guard, and he would 
not willingly let slip a chance of avenging the death of 
Jonas Wyvill. Coppinger was not in a condition to 
defend himself effectively. On that day, for the first 
time, had he left off his bandages, and his muscles were 
stiff and the newly set bones still weak. 

What was to be done ? Could Judith go to bed and 
let Coppinger run into the net prepared for his feet — go 
to his death ? 

No sooner, however, had Judith realized the danger 
that menaced Coppinger than she resolved on doing her 


Ili THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


101 


utmost to avert it. She, and she alone, could deliver 
him from the disgrace, if not the death, that menaced 
him. 

She stole lightly from the room and got her cloak, 
drew the hood over her head, and sallied forth into the 
night. Heavy clouds rolled over the sky, driven before 
a strong gale. Now and then they opened and disclosed 
the twilight sky, in which faintly twinkled a few stars, 
and at such times a dim light fell over the road, but in 
another moment lumbering masses of vapor were carried 
forward, blotting out the clear tract of sky, and at the 
same time blurring all objects on earth with one envelop- 
ing shadow. 

Judith’s heart beat furiously, and timidity came over 
her spirit as she left the cottage, for she was unaccus- 
tomed to be outside the house at such an hour ; but the 
purpose she had before her eyes gave her strength and 
courage. It seemed to her that Providence had sud- 
denly constituted her the guardian angel of Coppinger, 
and she flattered herself that, were she to be the means 
of delivering him from the threatened danger, she might 
try to exact of him a promise to discontinue so danger- 
ous and so questionable a business. If this night she 
were able to give him warning in time, it would be 
some return made for his kindness to her, and some 
reparation made for the injury she had done him. 
When for an instant there was a rift in the clouds, 
and she could look up and see the pure stars, it seemed 
to her that they shone down on her like angels’ eyes, 
watching, encouraging, and promising her protection. 
She thought of her father — of how his mind had been 
set against Coppinger ; now, she felt convinced, he saw 
that his judgment had been warped, and that he would 
bless her for doing that which she had set her mind to 
accomplish. Her father had been ever ready frankly 
to acknowledge himself in the wrong when he had been 
convinced that he was mistaken, and now in the light 
of eternity, with eyes undarkened by prejudice, he must 
know that he was in error in his condemnation of 
Coppinger, and be glad that his daughter was doing 
something to save that man from an untimely and 
bloody death. 

Not a soul did Judith meet or pass on her way. She 
had determined in the first case to go to Pentyre Glaze. 


102 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


She would see if Captain Cruel were there. She trusted 
he was at his house. If so, her course was simple ; she 
would warn him and returu to Mr. Menaida’s cottag’e as 
quickly as her feet would bear her. The wind caug*ht 
her cloak, and she turned in alarm, fancying that it was 
plucked by a human hand. No one, however, was be- 
hind her. 

In Pentyre lane it was dark, very dark. The rude 
haK-walls, half-hedges stood up high, walled toward 
the lane hedged with earth and planted with thorns 
toward the field. The wind hissed through the bushes ; 
there was an ash tree by a gate. One branch sawed 
against another, producing a weird, even shrill sound 
like a cry. 

The way led past a farm, and she stole along before it 
with the utmost fear as she heard the dog in the yard 
begin to bark furiously, and as she believed that it was 
not chained up, might rush forth at her. It might fall 
upon her, and hold her there till the farmer came forth 
and found her, and inquired into the reason of her being 
there at night. If found and recognized, what excuse 
could she give ? What explanation could satisfy the in- 
quisitive ! 

She did not breathe freely till she had come out on the 
down ; the dog was still barking, but, as he had not pur- 
sued her, she was satisfied that he was not at large. Her 
way now lay for a while over open common, and then 
again entered a lane between the hedges that enclosed 
the fields and meadows of the Glaze. 

A dense darkness fell over the down, and Judith for a 
while was uncertain of her way, the track being undis- 
tinguishable from the short turf on either side. Sud- 
denly she saw some flashes of light that ran along the 
ground and then disappeared. 

“ This is the road,” said a voice. 

Judith’s heart stood still, and her blood curdled in her 
veins. If the cloud were to roll away — and she could see 
far off its silvery fringe, she would become visible. The 
voice was that of a man, but whether that of a smuggler 
or of a coast-guard she could not guess. By neither 
did she care to be discovered. By the dim, uncertain 
light she stole off the path, and sank upon the ground 
among some masses of gorse that stood on the common. 
Between the prickly tufts she might lie, and in her dark 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


103 


cloak be mistaken for a patch of furze. She drew her 
feet under the skirt, that the white stocking-s might not 
betray her, and plucked the hood of her cloak closely 
round her face. The gorse was sharp, and the spikes en- 
tered her hands and feet, and pricked her as she turned 
herself about between the bushes to bring herself deeper 
among them. 

From where she lay she could see the faintly illumined 
horizon, and against that horizon figures were visible, 
one — then another — a third — she could not count accu- 
rately, for there came several together ; but she was con- 
vinced there must have been over a dozen men. 

“ It’s a’most too rough to-night, I reckon,” said one of 
the men. 

“No, it is not— the wind is not direct on shore. 
They’ll try it.” 

“Coppinger and his chaps are down in the cove 
already,” said a third. “ They wouldn’t go out if they 
wasn’t expecting the boats from the Black Prince.” 

“ You are sure they’re down, Wyvill ? ” 

“ Sure and sartain. I seed ’em pass, and mighty little 
I liked to let ’em go by — without a pop from my pistol. 
But I’d my orders. No orders against the pistol going 
off of itself. Captain, if I have a chance presently ? ” 

No answer was given to this ; but he who had been 
addressed as Captain asked 

“ Are the asses out ? ” 

“ Yes ; a whole score, I reckon.” 

“ Then they’ll come up the mule-path. We must watch 
that. Lieutenant Hanson will be ready with the cutter 
to run out and stop their way back by water to the 
Prince. The Prince’s men will take to the sea, and he’ll 
settle with them ; but Coppinger’s men will run up the 
cliffs, and we must tackle them. Go on.” 

Several now disappeared into the darkness, moving 
toward the sea. ^ i ^ 

“ Here, a word with you, Wyvill,” said the Captain. 

“Eight, sir — here I be.” 

“Dash it it is so dark ! Here, step back— a word 
in your ear.” 

“ Eight you are, sir.” -r 

They came on to the turf close to where Judith 
crouched. 

'‘What is that ? ” said the Captain, hastily. 


104 


m THE ROAB OE THE SEA. 


“ What, sir ? ” 

“ I thought I trod on something like cloth. Have you 
a light?” 

“ No, sir ! Horne has the dark lantern.” 

“ I suppose it is nothing. What is all that dark stuff 
there?” ' ^ 

“ 111 see, sir,” said Wyvill, stooping, and groping 
with his hand. “ By George, sir ! it’s naught but fuzz.” 

“ Very well, Wyvill — a word between us. I know that 
if you have the chance you intend to send a bullet into 
Coppinger. I don’t blame you. I won’t say I wouldn’t 
do it — unofficially — but looky’ here, man, if you can man- 
age without a bullet — say a blow with the butt-end on 
his forehead and a roll over the cliffs — I’d prefer it. In 
self-defence of course we must use fire-arms. But there’s 
some squeamish stomachs, you understand ; and if it 
can come about accidentally, as it were — as if he’d missed 
his footing — I’d prefer it. Make it pleasant all around, 
if you can.” 

“ Yes, sir ; leave it to me.” 

“ It oughtn’t to be difficult, you know, Wyvill. I hear 
he’s broke one arm, so is like to be insecure in his hold 
climbing the cliffs. Then no questions asked, and more 
pleasant, you know. You understand me ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; thank you, sir.” 

Then they went on, and were lost to sight and to 
hearing. For some minutes Judith did not stir. She 
lay, recovering her breath ; she had hardly ventured to 
breathe while the two men were by her, the Captain 
with his foot on her skirt. Now she remained motion- 
less, to consider what was to be done. It was of no 
further use her going on to Pentyre Glaze. Coppinger 
had left it. Wyvill, who had been planted as spy, had 
had seen him with his carriers defile out of the lane with 
the asses that were to bring up the smuggled goods from 
the shore. 

She dare not take the path by which on the preceding 
afternoon she had descended with Jamie to the beach, 
for it was guarded by the Preventive men. 

There was but one way by which she could reach the 
shore and warn Coppinger, and that was by the chimney 
of the cave — a way dangerous in daylight, one, moreover, 
not easy to find at night. The mouth of the chimney 
opened upon a ledge that overhung the sea half-way 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


105 


down the face of the precipice, and this ledge could only 
be reached by a narrow track — a track apparently traced 
by sheep. 

Judith thought that she might find her way to that 
part of the down from which the descent was to be 
made ; for she had noticed that what is locally called a 
“ new-take ” wall came near it, and if she could hit 
this wall, she believed she could trace it up to where it 
approached the cliff: and the track descended some- 
where thereabouts. She waited where she lay till the 
heavy clouds rolled by, and for a brief space the sky was 
comparatively clear. Then she rose, and took the direc- 
tion in which she ought to go to reach the “ new-take ” 
wall. As she went over the down, she heard the sea 
roaring threateningly ; on her left hand the glint of the 
light-house on Trevose Head gave her the direction she 
must pursue. But, on a down like that, with a precipice 
on one hand ; in a light, uncertain at best, often in com- 
plete darkness, it was dangerous to advance except by 
thrusting the foot forward tentatively before taking a 
step. The sea and the gnawing winds caused the cliffs 
to crumble ; bits were eaten out of the surface, and in 
places there were fissures in the turf where a rent had 
formed, and where shortly a mass would fall. 

It is said that the duties on customs were originally 
instituted in order to enable the Crown to afford protec- 
tion to trade against pirates. The pirates ceased to in- 
fest the seas, but the duties were not only taken off, but 
were increased, and became a branch of the public reve- 
nue. Perhaps some consciousness that the profits were 
not devoted to the purpose originally intended, bred in 
the people on the coast a feeling of resentment against 
the imposition of duties. There certainly existed an 
impression, a conviction rather, that the violation of a 
positive law of this nature was in no respect criminal. 
Adventurers embarked in the illicit traffic without 
scruple, as they did in poaching. The profit was great, 
and the danger run enhanced the excitement of the pur- 
suit, and gave a sort of heroic splendor to the achieve- 
ments of the successful smuggler. 

The Government, to stop a traffic that injured legiti- 
mate trade and a&cted the revenue, imposed severe 
penalties. Smuggling was classed among the felonies, 
“ without benefit of clergy,” the punishment for which 


106 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


was death and confiscation of goods. The consciousness 
that they would be dealt with with severity did not de- 
ter bold men from engaging in the traffic, but made them 
desperate in self-defence when caught. Conflicts with 
revenue officers were not uncommon, and lives were lost 
on both sides. The smugglers were not bound together 
by any link, and sometimes one gang was betrayed by 
another, so as to divert suspicion and attention from 
their own misdeeds, or out of jealousy, or on account of 
a quarrel. It was so on this occasion : the success of Cop- 
pinger, the ingenuity with which he had carried on his 
defiance of the law, caused envy of him, because he was 
a foreigner — was, at all events, not a Cornishman ; this 
had induced a rival to give notice to the Kevenue officers, 
through Scantlebray — a convenient go-between in a good 
many questionable negotiations. The man who betrayed 
Coppinger dared not be seen entering into communica- 
tion with the officers of the law. He, therefore, employed 
Scantlebray as the vehicle through whom, without sus- 
picion resting on himself, his rival might be fallen upon 
and his proceedings brought to an end. 

It was now very dark. Judith had reached and touched 
a wall ; but in the darkness lost her bearings. The Tre- 
vose light was no longer visible, and directly she left the 
wall to strike outward she became confused as to her 
direction, and in the darkness groped along with her 
feet, stretching her hands before her. Then the rain 
came down, lashing in her face. The wind had shifted 
somewhat during the evening, and it was no guidance to 
Judith to feel from what quarter the rain drove against 
her. Moreover, the cove formed a great curve in the 
coast-line, and was indented deeply in some places, so 
that to grope round the edge without light in quest of a 
point only seen or noticed once, seemed a desperate vent- 
ure. Suddenly Judith’s foot caught. It was entangled, 
and she could not disengage it. She stooped, and put 
her hand on a chain. It was Jamie’s steel dog-chain, one 
link of which had caught in a tuft of rest-harrow. 

She had found the spot she wanted, and now waited 
only till the rain had rushed further inland, and a fringe 
of light appeared in the sky, to advance to the very edge 
of the cliff. She found it expedient to stoop as she pro- 
ceeded, so as to discover some indications of the track. 
There were depressions where feet had worn the turf, 


m THE ROAR OR ITHE SEA, 107 

and she set hers therein, and soug-lit the next. Thus, 
creeping- and groping-, she neared the edge. 

And now came the moment of supreme peril, when, 
trusting that she had found the right path, she must go 
over the brink. If she were mistaken, the next step 
would send her down two hundred feet, to where she 
heard the roar, and felt the breath of the sea stream up 
to her from the abyss. Here she could distinguish noth- 
ing ; she must trust to Providence to guide her steps. 
She uttered a short and earnest prayer, and then boldly 
descended. She could not stoop now. To stoop was to 
dive headlong down. She felt her way, however, with 
her feet, reached one firm station, then another. Her 
hands touched the grass and earth of the ragged margin, 
then with another step she was below it, and held to the 
rain-splashed fangs of rock. 

Clinging, with her face inward, feeling with her feet, 
and never sure but that the next moment might see her 
launched into air, she stole onward, slowly, cautiously, 
and ever with the gnawing dread in her heart lest she 
should be too late. One intense point of consciousness 
stood out in her brain — it told her that if, while thus 
creeping down, there should come the flash and ex- 
plosion of fire-arms, her courage would fail, her head 
would spin, and she would be lost. 

How long she was descending she could not tell, how 
many steps she took was unknown to her — she had not 
counted — but it seemed to her an entire night that 
passed, with every change of position an hour was 
marked ; then, at last, she was conscious that she stood 
on more level ground. She had reached the terrace. 

A little further, and on her left hand, would open the 
mouth of the shaft, and she must descend that, in pro- 
foundest darkness. A cry! A light flashed into her 
eyes and dazzled her. A hand at the same moment 
clutched her, or she would have reeled back and gone 
over the cliff. 

The light was held to pour over her face. Who held 
it and who grasped her she could not see ; but she knew 
the moment she heard a voice exclaim — 

“ Judith ! ” 

In her terror and exhaustion she could but gasp for 
breath for a few moments. 

By degrees her firmness and resolution returned, and 


108 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


she exclaimed, in broken tones, panting between every 
few words — 

“ Captain Cruel !— you are betrayed — they are after 
you ! ” 

He did not press her. He waited till she could speak 
again, lowering the lantern. 

Then, without the glare in her eyes, she was able to 
speak more freely. 

“ There is a boat — a Kevenue cutter — waiting in the 
bay — and — above — are the Preventive men — and they 
will kill you.” 

“Indeed,” said he. “And you have come to warn 
me 

“ Yes.” 

“Tell me — are there any above, where you came 
down ? ” 

“ None ; they are on the ass-path.” 

“ Can you ascend as vou came down ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He extinguished his lantern, or covered it. 

“ I must no more show light. I must warn those be- 
low.” He paused, then said — 

“ Dare you mount alone.” 

“ I came down alone. ” 

“ Then do this one thing more for me. Mount, and go 
to Pentyre. Tell your aunt — three lights — red, white, 
red; then ten minutes, and then, red, red, white. Can 
you remember ? Repeat after me : ‘ Three lights — red, 
white, red; then ten minutes, and next, red, red, and 
white.’” 

Judith repeated the words. 

“ That is right. Lose no time. I dare not give you a 
light. None must now be shovui. The boat from the 
Black Prince is not in — this lantern was her guide. Now 
it is out she will go back. You will remember the sig- 
nals ? I thank you for what you have done. There is 
but one woman would have done it, and that Judith.” 

He stepped inside the shaft to descend. When hidden, 
he ‘allowed his light again to show, to assist him in his 
way down. Judith only waited till her eyes, that had 
been dazzled by the light, were recovered, and then she 
braced herself to resume her climb ; but now it was to be 
up the cliff. 


CHAPTEE XV. 

CHAINED. 


To ascend is easier than to go down. Judith was no 
longer alarmed. There was danger still, that was inevi- 
table; but the danger was as nothing now to what it 
had been. It is one thing to descend in total darkness 
into an abyss where one knows that below are sharp 
rocks, and a drop of two hundred feet to a thundering, 
raging sea, racing up the sand, pouring over the shelves 
of rock, foaming where divided waves clash. When Ju- 
dith had been on the beach in the afternoon the tide was 
out ; now it was flowing, and had swept over all that 
tract of white sand and pebble where she had walked. 
She could not indeed now see the water, but she heard 
the thud of a billow as it smote a rock, the boil and the 
hiss of the waves and spray. To step downward, grop- 
ing the way, with a depth and a wild-throbbing sea be- 
neath, demaaaded courage, and courage of no mean order; 
but it was other to mount, to be able to feel with the 
foot the ascent in the track,- and to grope upward with 
the hand from one point of clutch to another, to know 
that every step upward was lessening the peril, and 
bringing nearer to the sward and to safety. 

Without great anxiety, therefore, Judith turned to 
climb. Cruel Coppinger had allowed her to essay it un- 
aided. Would he have done that had he thought it in- 
volved danger, or, rather, serious danger? Judith was 
sure he would not. His confidence that she could climb 
to the summit unassisted made her confident. As she 
had descended she had felt an interior qualm and sink- 
ing at every step she took ; there was no such sensation 
now as she mounted. 

She was not much inconvenienced by the wind, for the 
wind was not directly on shore; but it soughed about 
her, and eddies caught her cloak and jerked it. It would 
have been better had sho left her cloak above on the 


110 


IN TEE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


turf. It incommoded her in her climb ; it caught in the 
■prongs of rock. 

The rain, the water running off the rock, had wet her 
shoes, soaked them, and every step was in moisture that 
oozed out of them. She was glad now to rest on her 
right hand. In descending, the left had felt and held 
the rock, and it had been rubbed and cut. Probably it 
was bleeding. 

Surely there was a little more light in the sky where 
the sky showed between the dense masses of vapor. Ju- 
dith did not observe this, for she did not look aloft ; but 
she could see a steely tract of sea, fretted into foam, re- 
flecting an illumination from above, greater than the 
twilight could cast. Then she remembered that there 
had been a moon a few nights before, and thought that it 
was probably risen by this time. 

Something chill and wet brushed her face. It startled 
her for a moment, and then she knew by the scent that 
it was a bunch of samphire growing out of the side of 
the crag. 

Shrill in her ear came the scream of a gull that rushed 
by in the darkness, and she felt, or believed she felt, the 
fan from the wings. Again it screamed, and near the 
ear it pierced her brain like an awl, and then again, still 
nearer, unnerving her. In the darkness she fancied that 
this gull was about to attack her with beak and claws, 
and she put up her left arm as a protection to her eyes. 
Then there broke out a jabber of sea-birds’ voices, laugh- 
ing mockingly, at a little distance. 

Whither had she got ? 

The way was no longer easy — one step before another 
— there was a break of continuity in the path, if path the 
track could be called. 

Judith stood still, and put forward her foot to test the 
rock in front. There was no place where it could rest. 
Had she, bewildered by that gull, diverged from the 
track ? It would be well to retreat a few steps. She en- 
deavored to do this, and found that she encountered a 
difficulty in finding the place where she had just planted 
her foot. 

It was but too certain that she was off the track line. 
How to recover it she knew not. With the utmost diffi- 
culty she did reach a point in her rear where she could 
stand, clinging to the rock; but she clung now with both 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Ill 


hands. There was no tuft of samphire to brush her face 
as she descended. She must have got wrong before she 
touched that. But where was the samphire ? She cau- 
tiously felt along the surface of the crag in quest of it, 
but could not find it. There was, however, a little above 
her shoulder, a something that felt like a ledge, and 
which might be the track. If she had incautiously crept 
forward at a level without ascending rapidly enough, she 
was probably below the track. Could she climb to this 
point — climb up the bare rock, with sheer precipice be- 
low her ? And, supposing that the shelf she felt with 
her hand were not the track, could she descend again to 
the place where she had been ? 

Her brain spun. She lost all notion as to where she 
might be — perhaps she was below the path, perhaps she 
was above it. She could not tell. She stood with arms 
extended, clinging to the rock, and her heart beat in 
bounds against the flinty surface. The clasp of her 
cloak was pressing on her throat, and strangling her. 
The wind had caught the garment, and was playing with 
the folds, carrying it out and flapping it behind her over 
the gulf. It was irksome ; it was a danger to her. She 
cautiously slid one hand to her neck, unhasped the man- 
tle, and it was snatched from her shoulders and carried 
away. She was lighter without it, could move with 
greater facility ; cold she was not, wet she might be- 
come, but what mattered that if she could reach the top 
of the cliff % 

Not only on her own account was Judith alarmed. 
She had undertaken a commission. She ^ had promised 
to bear a message to her aunt from Coppinger that con- 
cerned the safety of his men. What the signal meant 
she did not know, but suspected that it conveyed a mes- 
sage of danger. 

She placed both her hands on the ledge, and felt with 
her knee for some point on which to rest it, to assist her 
in lifting herself from where she stood to the higher 
elevation. There was a small projection, and after a 
moment’s hesitation she drew her foot from the shelf 
whereon it had rested and leaned the left knee on this 
hunch. Then she clung with both hands, and with them 
and her knee endeavored to heave herself up about four 
feet, that is, to the height of her shoulders. A convul- 
sive quiver seized on her muscles. She was sustained 


112 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


by a knee and her hands only. If they gave way she 
could not trust to recover her previous lodgement place. 
One desperate strain, and she was on the ledge, on both 
knees, and was feeling with her hands to ascertain if she 
had found the track. Her fingers touched thrift and 
passed over turf. She had not reached what she sought. 
She was probably farther from it than before. As all 
her members were quivering after the effort, she seated 
herself on the shelf she had reached, leaned back against 
the wet rock, and waited till her racing pulses had re- 
covered evenness of flow, and her muscles had overcome 
the first effects of their tension. 

Her position was desperate. Kain and perspiration 
mingled dripped from her brow, ran over and blinded 
her eyes. Her breath came in sobs between her parted 
lips. Her ears were full of the booming of the surge 
far below, and the scarcely less noisy throb of her blood 
in her pulses. 

When she had started on her adventurous expedition 
she had seen some stars that had twinkled down on her, 
and had appeared to encourage her. Now, not a star 
was visible, only, far off on the sea, a wan light that fell 
through a rent in the black canopy over an angry deep. 
Beyond that all was darkness, between her and that all 
was darkness. 

As she recovered her self-possession, with the abate- 
ment of the tumult in her blood she was able to review 
her position, and calculate her chances of escape from 
it. 

Up the track from the cave the smugglers would al- 
most certainly escape, because that was the only way, 
unwatched, by which they could leave the beach without 
falling into the hands of the Preventive men. 

If they came by the path — that path could not be far 
off, though in which direction it lay she could not guess. 
She would call, and then Coppinger or some of his men 
would come to her assistance. 

By this means alone could she escape. There was 
nothing for her to do but to wait. 

She bent forward and looked down. She might have 
been looking into a well ; but a little way out she could 
see, or imagine she saw, the white fringes of surf steal- 
ing in. There was not sufficient light for her to be cer- 
tain whether she really saw foam, or whether her fancy, 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


113 


excited by the thunder of the tide, made her suppose 
she saw it. 

The shelf she occupied was narrow and inclined ; if she 
slipped from it she could not trust to maintain herself 
on the lower shelf, certainly not if she slid down in a 
condition of unconsciousness. And now reaction after 
the strain was setting in, and she feared lest she might 
faint. In her pocket was the dog-chain that had caught 
her foot. She extracted that now, and groping along the 
wall of rock behind her, caught a stout tuft of coarse 
heather, wiry, well rooted ; and she took the little steel 
chain and wound it about the branches and stem of the 
plant, and also about her wrist — her right wrist — so as 
to fasten her to the wall. That was some relief to her 
to know that in the event of her dropping out of con- 
sciousness there was something to hold her up, though 
that was only the stem of an erica, and her whole weight 
would rest on its rootlets. Would they suffice to sustain 
her ? It was doubtful ; but there was nothing else on 
which she could depend. 

Suddenly a stone whizzed past, struck the ledge, and 
rebounded. Then came a shower of earth and pebbles. 
They did not touch her, but she heard them clatter down. 

Surely they had been displaced by a foot, and that a 
foot passing above. 

Then she heard a shot — also overhead, and a cry. She 
looked aloft, and saw against the half-translucent vapors 
a black struggling figure on the edge of the cliff. She 
saw it but for an instant, and then was struck on the face 
by an open hand, and a body crashed on to the shelf at 
her side, rolled over the edge, and plunged into the 
gulf below. 

She tried to cry, but her voice failed her. She felt her 
cheek stung by the blow she had received. A feeling as 
though all the rock were sinking under her came on, as 
though she were sliding — not shooting— but sliding 
down, down, and the sky went up higher, higher— and 
she knew no more. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 


ON THE SHINGLE. 

The smugglers, warned by Coppinger, had crept up 
the path in silence, and singly, at considerable intervals 
between each, and on reaching the summit of the clilfs 
had dispersed to their own homes, using the precaution 
to strike inland first, over the “ new-take ” wall. 

As the last of the party reached the top he encountered 
one of the coast-guards, who, by the orders of his suiDerior, 
was patrolling the down to watch that the smugglers did 
not leave the cove by any other path than the one known 
— that up and down which donkeys were driven. This 
donkey-driving to the beach was not pursued solely for 
the sake of contraband ; the beasts brought up loads of 
sand, which the farmers professed they found valuable as 
manure on their stiff soil, and also the masses of seaweed 
cast on the strand after a gale, and which was considered 
to be possessed of rare fertilizing qualities. 

No sooner did the coast-guard see a man ascend the 
cliff, or rather come up over the edge before him, than he 
fired his pistol to give the signal to his fellows, where- 
upon the smuggler turned, seized him by the throat, and 
precipitated him over the edge. 

Of this Coppinger knew nothing. He had led the pro- 
cession, and had made his way to Pentyre Glaze by a 
roundabout route, so as to evade a guard set to watch for 
him approaching from the cliffs, should one have been so 
planted. 

On reaching his door, his first query was whether the 
signals had been made. 

“ IVliat signals ? ” asked Miss Trevisa. 

“ I sent a messenger here with instructions.” 

“ No messenger has been here.” 

“What, no one — not — ” he hesitated, and said, “not 
a woman ? ” 

^ “ Not a soul has been here — man, woman, or child — 
since you left.” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


115 


“ No one to see you ? ” 

“ No one at all, Captain.” 

Coppinger did not remove his hat; he stood in the 
doorway biting* his thumb. AVas it possible that Judith 
had shrunk from coming* to his house to bear the mes- 
sag*e ? Yet she had promised to do so. Had she been 
intercepted by the Preventive men ? Had — had she 
reached the top of the cliff ? Had she, after reaching the 
top, lost her way in the dark, taken a false direction, 
and — Coppinger did not allow the thought to find 
full expression in his brain. He turned, without another 
word, and hastened to the cottage of Mr. Menaida. He 
must ascertain whether she had reached home. 

Uncle Zachie had not retired to bed ; Scantlebray had 
been gone an hour ; Zachie had drunk with Scantlebray, 
and he had drunk after the departure of that individual 
to indemnify himself for the loss of his company. Con- 
sequently Mr. Menaida was confused in mind and thick 
in talk. 

“ AVhere is Judith ? ” asked Coppinger, bursting in on 
him. 

“ In bed, I suppose,” answered Uncle Zachie, after a 
while, when he comprehended the question, and had had 
time to get over his surprise at seeing the Captain. 

“ Are you sure ? When did she come in ? ” 

“ Come in % ” said the old man, scratching his forehead 
with his pipe. “ Come in— bless you, I don’t know ; 
some time in the afternoon. Yes, to be sure it was, 
some time in the afternoon.” 

“ But she has been out to-night ? ” 

“No— no— no,” said Uncle Zachie, “it was Scantle- 
bray.” 

“ I say she has— she has been to—” he paused, then 
said — “ to see her aunt.” 

“ Aunt Dunes ! bless my heart, when ? ” 

“To-night.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“But I say she has. Come, Mr. Menaida. Go up to 
her room, knock at the door, and ascertain if she be 
back. Her aunt is alarmed— there are rough folks about.” 

“ AVhy , bless me ! ” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “ so there 
are. And— well, wonders’ll never cease. How came you 
here? I thought the guard were after you. Scantle- 
bray said so.” 


116 


7iV^ THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Will you go at once and see if Judith Trevisa is 
home ? ” 

Coppinger spoke with such vehemence, and looked so 
threateningly at the old man, that he staggered out of 
his chair, and, still holding his pipe, went to the stairs. 

“ Bless me ! ” said he, “ whatever am I about ? I’ve 
forgot a candle. Would you oblige me with lighting 
one ? My hand shakes, and I might light my fingers by 
mistake.” 

After what seemed to Coppinger to be an intolerable 
length of time. Uncle Zachie stumbled down the stairs 
again. 

“I say,” said Mr. Menaida, standing on the steps, 
“ Captain — did you ever hear about Tincombe Lane ? — 

‘ Tincombe Lane is all Tip-hill, 

Or down hill, as you take it ; 

You tumble up and crack your crown, 

Or tumble down and break it.’ 

— ^It’s the same with these blessed stairs. Would you 
mind lending me a hand ? By the powers, the banister 
is not firm ! Do you know how it goes on ? — 

‘ Tincombe Lane is crooked and straight 
As pot-hook or as arrow. 

’Tis smooth to foot, ’tis full of rut, 

’Tis wide and then ’tis narrow.’ 

— Thank you, sir, thank you. Now take the candle. 
Bah ! I’ve broke my pipe — and then comes the moral — 

‘ Tincombe Lane is just like life 

From when you leave your mother, 

’Tis sometimes this, ’tis sometimes that, 

’Tis one thing or the other.’ ” 

In vain had Coppinger endeavored to interrupt the 
flow of words, and to extract from thick Zachie the in- 
formation he needed, till the old gentleman was back in 
his chair. 

Then Uncle Zachie observed— “ Blessy’— I said so— I 
said so a thousand times. No— she’s not there. Tell 
Aunt Dunes so. Will you sit down and have a drop ? 
The night is rough, and it will do you good-^-take the 


XN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 117 

chill out of your stomach and the damp out of vour 
chest.” 

But Coppinger did not wait to decline the offer. He 
turned at once, left the house, and dashed the door back 
as he stepped out into the night. He had not gone a 
hundred paces along the road before he heard voices, 
and recognized that of Mr. Scantlebray — 

“ I tell you the vessel is the Black Prince, and I know 
he was to have unloaded her to-night.” 

“ Anyhow he is not doing so. Not a sign of him.” 

“ The night is too dirty.” 

“ Wyvill — ” Coppinger knew that the Captain at the 
head of the coast-guard was speaking. “ Wyvill, I heard 
a pistol-shot. Where is Jenkyns ? If you had not been 
by me I should have said you had acted wide of your 
orders. Has any one seen Jenkyns ? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“ Who is that ? ” 

Suddenly a light flashed forth, and glared upon Cop- 
pinger. The Captain in command of the coast-guard 
uttered an oath. 

“You out to-night, Mr. Coppinger? Where do you 
come from ? ” 

“ As you see — from Polzeath.” 

“ Humph ! From no other direction ? ” 

“I’ll trouble you to let me pass.” 

Coppinger thrust the Preventive man aside, and went 
on his way. 

When he was beyond ear-shot, Scantlebray said — 
“ I trust he did not notice me along with you. You see, 
the night is too dirty. Let him bless his stars, it has 
saved him.” 

“I should like to see Jenkyns,” said the officer. “I 
am almost certain I heard a pistol-shot ; but when I sent 
in the direction whence it came, there was no one to be 
seen. It’s a confounded dark night.” ^ 

“ I hope they’ve not give us the slip, Captain ? ” said 
Wyvill. 

“ Impossible,” answered the officer. “ Impossible. I 
took every precaution. They did not go out to-night. 
As Mr. Scantlebray says, the night was too dirty.” 

Then they went on. 

In the meantime Coppinger was making the best of 
his way to the downs. He knew his direction even in 


118 IN THE no AH OF THE SEA. 

the dark — he had the “ new-take ” wall as a guide. What 
the coast-guard did not suspect was that this “ new-take ” 
had been made for the very purpose of serving as a guide 
by which the smugglers could find their course in the 
blackest of winter’s nights; moreover, in the fiercest 
storm the wall served as a shelter, under lea of which 
they might approach their cave. Coppinger was with- 
out a lantern. He doubted if one would avail him, in 
his quest ; moreover, the night was lightening, as the 
moon rode higher. 

The smuggler captain stood for a moment on the edge 
of the cliffs to consider what course he should adopt to 
find Judith. If she had reached the summit, it was pos- 
sible enough that she had lost her way and had rambled 
inland among lanes and across fields, pixy -led. In that 
case it was a hopeless task to search for her ; moreover, 
there would be no particular necessity for him to do so, 
as, sooner or later, she must reach a cottage or a farm, 
where she could learn her direction. But if she had 
gone too near the edge, or if, in her ascent, her foot had 
slipped, then he must search the shore. The tide was 
ebbing now, and left a margin on which he could walk. 
This was the course he must adopt. He did not descend 
by the track to the chimney, as the creeping down of 
the latter could be effected in absolute darkness only 
with extreme risk ; but he bent his way over the down 
skirting the crescent indentation of the cove to the don- 
key-path, which was now, as he knew, unwatched. By 
that he swiftly and easily descended to the beach. Along 
the shore he crept carefully toward that portion which 
was overhung by the precipice along which the way ran 
from the mouth of the shaft. The night was mending, 
or at all events seemed better. The moon, as it mounted, 
cast a glimmer through the least opaque portions of the 
driving clouds. Coppinger looked up, and could see the 
ragged fringe of down torn with gullies, and thrust up 
into prongs, black as ink against the gray of the half- 
translucent vapors. And near at hand was the long dor- 
sal ridge that concealed the entrance to the cave, sloping 
rapidly upward and stretching away before him into 
shadow. 

Coppinger mused. If one were to fall from above, 
would he drop between the cliff and this curtain, or 
would he strike and be projected over it on to the 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 119 

shelving sand up which stole the waves ? He knew that 
^he water eddying against friable sandstone strata that 
came to the surface had eaten them out with the wash, 
and that the hard flakes of slate and ribs of quartz stood 
forth, overhanging the cave. Most certainly, therefore, 
had Judith fallen, her body must be sought on the sea- 
face of the masking ridge. The smuggler stood at the 
very point where in the preceding afternoon Jamie and 
the dog had scrambled up that fin-like blade of rock and 
disappeared from the astonished gaze of Judith. The 
moon, smothered behind clouds, and yet, in a measure 
self-assertive, cast sufficient light down into the cove to 
glitter on, and transmute into steel, the sea-washed and 
smoothed, and still wet, ridge, sloping inland as a sea- 
wall. As Coppinger stood looking upward he saw in 
the uncertain light something caught on the fangs of 
this saw-ridge, moving uneasily this way, thjen that, 
something dark, obscuring the glossed surface of the 
rock, as it might be a mass of gigantic sea-tangles. 

“ Judith ! ” he cried. “ Is that you ? ” and he plunged 
through the pool that intervened, and scrambled up the 
rock. 

He caught something. It was cloth. “ Judith ! Ju- 
dith ! ” he almost shrieked in anxiety. That which he 
had laid hold of yielded, and he gathered to him a gar- 
ment of some sort, and with it he slid back into the pool, 
and waded on to the pebbles. Then he examined his 
capture by the uncertain light, and by feel, and con- 
vinced himself that it was a cloak — a cloak with clasp 
and hood — just such as he had seen Judith wearing 
when he flashed his lantern over her on the platform at 
the mouth of the shaft. 

He stood for a moment, numbed as though he had 
been struck on the head with a mallet, and irresolute. 
He had feared that Judith had fallen over the edge, but 
he had hoped that it was not so. This discovery seemed 
to confirm his worst fears. 

If the cloak were there— she also would probably be 
there also, a broken heap. She who had thrown him 
down and broken him, had been thrown down herself, 
and broken also — thrown down and broken because she 
had come to rescue him from danger. Coppinger put 
his hand to his head. His veins were beating as though 
they would Wst the vessels in his temples, and suffuse 


120 


IN THE ROAli OF THE SEA, 


his face with blood. As he stood thus clasping his broTV 
with his right hand, the clouds were swept for an in- 
stant aside, and for an instant the moon sent down a 
weird glare that ran like a wave along the sand, leaped 
impediments, scrambled up rocks, and flashed in the 
pools. For one moment only — but that sufficed to re- 
veal to him a few paees ahead a black heap : there was 
no mistaking it. The rounded outlines were not those 
of a rock. It was a human body lying on the shingle 
half immersed in the pool at the foot of the reef I 

A cry of intensest, keenist anguish burst from the 
heart of Coppinger. Prepared though he was for what 
he must see by the finding of the cloak, the sight of 
that motionless and wrecked body was more than he 
could endure with composure. In the darkness that en- 
sued after the moon-gleam he stepped forward, slowly, 
even timidly, to where that human wreck lay, and knelt 
on both knees beside it on the wet sand. 

He waited. Would the moon shine out again and 
show him what he dreaded seeing ? would not put 
down a hand to touch it. One still clasped his brow, 
the other he could not raise so high, and he held it 
against his breast where it had lately been strapped. 
He tried to hold his breath, to hear if any sound issued 
from what lay before him. He strained his eyes to see 
if there were any, the slightest movement in it. Yet he 
knew there could be none. A fall from these cliffs above 
must dash every spark of life out of a body that reeled 
down them. He turned his eyes upward to see if the 
cloud would pass ; but no — it seemed to be one that was 
all-enveloping, unwilling to grant him that glimpse 
which must be had, but which would cause him acutest 
anguish. 

He could not remain kneeling there in suspense any 
longer. In uncertainty he was not. The horror was be- 
fore him — and must be faced. 

^ He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth 
tinder-box and flint. With a hand that had never trem- 
bled before, but now shaking as with an ague, he struck 
a light. The sparks flew about, and were long in ig- 
niting the touch-wood. But finally it was kinffled, and 
glowed red. The wind fanned it into fitful flashes, as 
Coppinger, stooping, held the lurid spark over the 
prostrate form, and passed it up and down on the face. 


m THE ROAM OF THE SEA. 


121 


Then suddenly it fell from his hand, and he drew a 
gasp. The dead face was that of a bearded man. 

A laugh — a wild, boisterous laugh — rang out into the 
night, and was re-echoed by the cliff, as Coppinger 
leaped to his feet. There was hope still. Judith had 
not fallen. 


CHAPTER Xm 

FOE LIFE OR DEATH. 

Copping’er did not hesitate a moment now to leave 
the corpse on the beach where he had found it, and to 
hasten to the cave. 

There was a third alternative to which hitherto he had 
given no attention. Judith, in ascending the cliff, might 
have strayed from the track, and be in such a position 
that she could neither advance nor draw back. Pie 
would, therefore, explore the path from the chimney 
mouth, and see if any token could be found of her having 
so done. 

He again held his smouldering tinder and by this 
feeble glimmer made his way up the inclined beach 
within the cave, passed under the arch of the rock where 
low, and found himself in that portion where was the 
boat. 

Here he knew of a receptacle for sundries, such as 
might be useful in an emergency, and to that he made 
his way, and drew from it a piece of candle and a lantern. 
He speedily lighted the candle, set it in the lantern, and 
then ascended the chimney. 

On reaching the platform at the orifice in the face of 
the rock, it occurred to him that he had forgotten to 
bring rope with him. He would not return for that, 
unless he found a need for it. Rope there was below, 
of many yards length. Till he knew that it was re- 
quired, it seemed hardly worth his while to encumber 
himself with a coil that might be too long or too short 
for use. He did not even know that he would find 
Judith. It was a chance, that was all. It was more 
probable that she had strayed on the down, and was 
now back at Polzeath, and safe and warm in bed. 

From the ledge in front of the shaft Coppinger pro- 
ceeded with caution and leisure, exploring every portion 
of the ascent with lowered lantern. There were plenty 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


123 


of impressions of feet wherever the soft and crumbly 
beds had been traversed, and where the dissolved stone 
had been converted into clay or mud, but these were the 
impressions of the smugglers escaping from their den. 
Step by step he mounted, till he had got about half-way 
U13, when he noticed, what he had not previously ob- 
served, that there was a point at which the track left the 
ledge of stratified vertical rock that had inclined its 
broken edge upward, and by a series of slips mounted 
to another fractured stratum, a leaf of the story-book 
turned up with the record of infinite ages sealed up in 
it. It was possible that one unacquainted with the 
course might grope onward, following the ledge instead 
of deserting it for a direct upward climb. As Coppinger 
now perceived, one ignorant of the way and unprovided 
with a light would naturally follow the shelf. He ac- 
cordingly deserted the track, and advanced along the 
ledge. There was a little turf in one place, in the next a 
tuft of armeria, then mud or clay, and there — assuredly a 
foot had trodden. There was a mark of a sole that was 
too small to have belonged to a man. 

The shelf at first was tolerably broad, and could be 
followed without risk by one whose head was steady ; 
but for how long would it so continue % These rough 
edges, these laminae of upheaved slate were treacherous 
— they were sometimes completely broken down, forming 
gaps, in places stridable, in others discontinuous for many 
yards. 

The footprints satisfied Coppinger that Judith had 
crept along this terrace, and so had missed the right 
course. It was impossible that she could reach the sum- 
mit by this way — she must have fallen or be clinging 
at some point farther ahead, a point from which she 
could not advance, and feared to retreat. 

He held the lantern above his head, and peered before 
him, but could see nothing. The glare of the artificial 
light made the darkness beyond its radius the deeper 
and more impervious to the eye._ He called, but received 
no answer. He called again, with as little success. He 
listened, but heard no other sound than the mutter of 
the sea, and the wail of the wind. There was nothing 
for him to do but to go forward ; and he did that slowly, 
searchingly, with the light near the ground, seeking for 
some further trace of Judith. He was obliged to use 


124 


IN THE ROAR OE THE SEA, 


caution, as the ledge of rock narrowed. Here it was 
hard, and the foot passing over it made no impression. 
Then ensued a rift and a slide of shale, and here he 
thought he observed indications of recent dislodgement. 

Now the foot-hold was reduced, he could no longer 
stoop to examine the soil ; he must stand upright and 
hold to the rock with his right hand, and move with 
precaution lest he should be precipitated below. 

Was it conceivable that she had passed there “? — there 
in the dark % And yet — if she had not, she must have 
been hurled below. 

Coppinger, clinging with his fingers, and thrusting 
one foot before the other, then drawing forward that 
foot, with every faculty on the alert, passed to where, for 
a short space, the ledge of rock expanded, and there he 
stooped once more with the light to explore. Beyond 
.was a sheer fall, and the dull glare from his lantern 
showed him no continuance of the shelf. As he arose 
from his bent position, suddenly the light fell on a hand 
— a delicate, childish hand — hanging down. He raised 
the lantern, and saw her whom he sought. At this point 
she had climbed upward to a higher ledge, and on that 
she lay, one arm raised, fastened by a chain to a tuft of 
heather — her head fallen against the rock, and feet and 
one arm over the edge of the cliff. She was uncon- 
scious, sustained by a dog-chain and a little bunch of 
ling-. 

Coppinger passed the candle over her face. It was 
white, and the eyes did not close before the light. 

His position was vastly difficult. She hung there 
chained to the cliff, and he doubted whether he could 
sustain her weight if he attempted to carry her back 
while she was unconscious, along the way he and she 
had come. It was perilous for one alone to move along 
that strip of surface ; it seemed impossible for one to ef- 
fect it bearing in his arms a human burden. 

Moreover, Coppinger was well aware that his left arm 
had not recovered its strength. He could not trust her 
weight on that. He dare not trust it on his right arm, 
for to return by the way he came the right hand would 
be that which was toward the void. The principal 
weight must be thrown inward. 

M hat was to be done ? This, primarily : to release 
the insensible girl from her present position, in which 


Iisr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


125 


the agony of the strain on her shoulder perhaps pro- 
longed her unconsciousness. 

Coppinger mounted to the shelf on which she lay, 
and bowing himself over her, while holding her, so that 
she should not slip over the edge, he disentangled the 
chain from her wrist and the stems of the heather. Then 
he seated himself beside her, drew her toward him, 
with his right arm about her, and laid her head on his 
shoulder. 

And the chain ? 

That he took and deliberately passed it round her 
waist and his own body, fastened it, and muttered, “ For 
life or for death ! ” 

There, for a while, he sat. He had set the lantern be- 
side him. His hand was on Judith’s heart, and he held 
his breath, and waited to feel if there was pulsation 
there ; but his own arteries were in such agitation, the 
throb in his finger ends prevented his being able to sat- 
isfy himself as to what he desired to know. 

He could not remain longer in his present position. 
Judith might never revive. She had swooned through 
over-exhaustion, and nothing could restore her to life 
but the warmth and care she would receive in a house ; 
he cursed his folly, his thoughtlessness, in having 
brought with him no flask of brandy. He dared remain 
no longer where he was, the ebbing powers in the feeble 
life might sink beyond recall. 

He thrust his right arm under her, and adjusted the 
chain about him so as to throw some of her weight off 
the arm,' and then cautiously slid to the step below, and, 
holding her, set his back to the rocky wall. 

So, facing the Atlantic Ocean, facing the wild night 
sky, tom here and there into flakes of light, otherwise 
cloaked in storm-gloom, with the abyss below, an abyss 
of jagged rock and shingle shore, he began to make liis 
way along the track by which he had gained that point. 

He was at that part where the shelf narrowed to a 
foot, and his safety and hers depended largely on the 
power that remained to him in his left arm. With the 
hand of that arm he felt along and clutched every pro- 
jecting point of rock, and held to it with every sinew 
strained and starting. He drew a long breath. Was 
Judith stirring on his arm ? 

The critical minute had come. The slightest move- 


126 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


ment, the least displacement of the balance, and both 
would be precipitated below. 

“ Judith ! ” said he, hoarsely, turning his head toward 
her ear, “ Judith ! ” 

There was no reply. 

“ Judith ! For Heaven’s sake— if you hear me— do not 
lift a finger. Do not move a muscle.” 

The same heavy weight on him without motion. 

“ Judith ! For life— or death ! ” 

Then suddenly from off the ocean flashed a tiny spark 
— far, far away. 

It was a signal from the Black Prince. 

He saw it, fixed his eyes steadily on it, and began to 
move sideways, facing the sea, his back to the rock, 
reaching forward with his left arm, holding Judith in 
the right. 

‘‘ For life ! ” 

He took one step sideways, holding with the disen- 
gaged hand to the rock. The bone of that arm was but 
just knit. Not only so, but that of the collar was also 
recently sealed up after fracture. Yet the salvation of 
two lives hung on these two infirm joints. The arm was 
stiff ; the muscles had not recovered flexibility, nor the 
sinews their strength. 

“ For death!” 

A second sidelong step, and the projected foot slid in 
greasy marl. He dug his heel into the wet and yielding 
soil, he stamped in it ; then, throwing all his weight on 
the left heel, aided by the left arm, he drew himself 
along and planted the right beside the left. 

He sucked the air in between his teeth with a hiss. 
The soft soil was sinking — it would break away. The 
light from the Black Prince seemed to rise. With a 
wrench he planted his left foot on rock — and drew up 
the right to it. 

“ Judith I For life ! ” 

That star on the the black sea — what did it mean ? He 
knew. His mind was clear, and though in intense con- 
centration of all his powers on the effort to pass this 
strip of perilous path, he could reason of other tilings, 
and knew why the Black Prince had exposed her light. 
The lantern that he had borne, and left on the shelf, had 
been seen by her, and she supposed it to be a signal 
from the terrace over the cave. 


7iV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


127 


The next step was full of peril. With his left foot ad- 
v^ced, Coppinger felt he had reached the shale. He 
kicked into it, and kicked away an avalanche of loose 
flakes that slid over the edge. But he drove his foot 
deep into the slope, and rammed a dent into which he 
could fix the right foot when drawn after it. 

“ For death ! ” 

Then he crept along upon the shale. 

He could not see the star now. His sweat, rolling off 
his brow, had run over his eyelids and charged the 
lashes with tears. In partial blindness he essayed the 
next step. 

“ For life ! ” 

Then he breathed more freely. His foot was on the 
grass. 

The passage of extreme danger was over. From the 
point now reached the ledge widened, and Coppinger 
was able to creep onward with less stress laid on the 
fractured bones. The anguish of expectation of death 
was lightened ; and as it lightened nature began to as- 
sert herself. His teeth chattered as in an ague fit, and 
his breath came in sobs. 

In ten minutes he had attained the summit — he was 
on the down above the cliffs. 

“ Judith,” said he, and he kissed her cheeks and brow 
and hair. “ For life — for death — mine, only mine.” 


CHAPTEE XVin. 


UNA. 

When Judith opened her eyes, she found herself in a 
strange room, but as she looked about her she saw Aunt 
Dionysia with her hands behind her back looking out of 
the window, 

“ Oh, aunt ! Where am I ? ” 

Miss Trevisa turned. 

“ So you have come round at last, or pleased to pre- 
tend to come round. It is hard to tell whether or not 
dissimulation was here.” 

“ Dissimulation, aunt ? ” 

“ There’s no saying. Young folks are not what they 
were in my day. They have neither the straightfor- 
wardness nor the consideration for their elders and bet- 
ters.” 

“ But — where am I ? ” 

“ At the Glaze ; not where I put you, but where you 
have put yourself.” 

“ I did not come here, auntie, dear.” 

“ Don’t auntie dear me, and deprive me of my natural 
sleep.” 

“ Have I ? ” 

“ Have you not 1 Three nights have I had to sit up. 
And natural sleep is as necessary to me at my age as is 
stays. I fall abroad without one or the other. Give me 
my choice — whether I’d have nephews and nieces crawl- 
ing about me* or erysipelas, and I’d choose the latter.” 

“ But, aunt — I’m sorry if I am a trouble to you.” 

“ Of course you are a trouble. How can you be other ? 
Don’t burs stick ? But that is neither here nor there.” 

“ Aunt, how came I to Pentyre Glaze ? ” 

‘‘ I didn’t invite you, and I didn’t bring you — you may 
be sure of that. Captain Coppinger found you some- 
where on the down at night, when you ought to have 
been at home. You were insensible, or pretended to be 
so — it’s not for me to say which.” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 129 

“ Oil, aunt, I don’t want to be here.” 

^“ Nor do I want you here — and in my room, too. 
Hoity-toity ! nephews and nieces are just like pi^s — you 
want them to g-o one way and they run the other.” 

“ But I should like to know where Captain Coppinger 
found me, and all about it. I don’t remember anything.” 

“ Then you must ask him yourself.” 

“ I should like to get up ; may I ? ” 

‘‘ I can’t say till the doctor comes. There’s no telling 
— I might be blamed. I shall be pleased enough when 
you are shifted to your own room,” and she pointed to a 
door. 

“ My room, auntie % ” 

“ I suppose so ; I don’t know whose else it is.” 

Then Miss Trevisa whisked out of the room. 

J udith lay quietly in bed trying to collect her thoughts 
and recall something of what had happened. She could 
recollect fastening her wrist to the shrub by her brother’s 
dog-chain ; then, with all the vividness of a recurrence of 
the scene — the fall of the man, the stroke on her cheek, 
his roll over and plunge down the precipice. The re- 
collection made a film come over her eyes and her heart 
stand still. After that she remembered nothing. She 
tried hard to bring to mind one single twinkle of re- 
membrance, but in vain. It was like looking at a wall 
and straining the eyes to see through it. 

Then she raised herself in bed to look about her. She 
was in her aunt’s room, and in her aunt’s bed. She had 
been brought there by Captain Coppinger. He, there- 
fore, had rescued her from the position of peril in which 
she had been. So far she could understand. She would 
have liked to know more, but more, probably, her aunt 
could not tell her, even if inclined to do so. 

Where was Jamie ? Was he at Uncle Zachie’s Had 
he been anxious and unhappy about her % She hoped 
he had got into no trouble during the time he had been 
free from her supervision. Judith felt that she must go 
back to Mr. Menaida’s and to Jamie. She could not stay 
at the Glaze. She could not be happy with her ever- 
grumbling, ill-tempered aun^ Besides, her father would 
not have wished her to be there. 

What did Aunt Dunes mean when she pointed to a 
door and spoke of her room ? 

Judith could not judge whether she were strong till 


130 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


she tried her strength. She slipped her feet to the floor, 
stood up and stole over the floor to that door which hei 
aunt had indicated. She timidly raised the latch, after 
listening at it, opened and peeped into a small apart- 
ment. To her surprise she saw the little bed she had 
occupied at her dear home, the rectory, her old wash- 
stand, her mirror, the old chairs, the framed pictures 
that had adorned her walls, the common and trifling or- 
naments that had been arranged on her chimney-piece. 
Every object with which she had been familiar at the 
parsonage for many years, and to which she had said 
good-by, never expecting to have a right to them any 
more — all these were there, furnishing the room that ad- 
joined her aunt’s apartment. 

She stood looking around in surprise, till she heard a 
step on the stair outside, and, supposing it was that of 
Aunt Dionysia, she ran back to bed, and dived under the 
clothes and pulled the sheets over her golden head. 

Aunt Dunes entered the room, bringing with her a bowl 
of soup. Her eye at once caught the opened door into 
the little adjoining chamber. 

“ You have been out of bed ! ” 

Judith thrust her head out of its hiding-place, and said, 
frankly, “ Yes, auntie ! I could not help myself. I want 
to see. How have you managed to get all my things to- 
gether ? 

“ I ? I have had nothing to do with it.” 

“ But — who did it, auntie ? ” 

“ Captain Coppinger ; he was at the sale.” 

“ Is the sale over, aunt ? ” 

“ Yes, whilst you have been ill.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad it is over, and I knew nothing about 
it.” 

“ Oh, exactly ! Not a thought of the worry you have 
been to me ; deprived of my sleep— of my bed — of my 
bed,” repeated Aunt Dunes, grimly. “ How can you 
expect a bulb to flower if you take it out of the earth and 
stick it on a bedroom chair stirring broth % I have no 
patience with you young people. You are consumed 
with selfishness.” 

“ But, auntie ! Don’t be cross. Why did Captain 
Coppinger buy all my dear crinkum-crankums ? ” 

Aunt Dionysia snorted and tossed her head. 

Judith suddenly flushed; she did not repeat the ques- 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. l31 

tion, but said hastily, “ Auntie, I want to "o back to Mr. 
Menaida.” 

“ You cannot desire it more than I do,” said Miss Tre- 
visa, sharply. “But whether he will let you go is 
another matter.” 

“ Aunt Dunes, if I want to go, I will go ! ” 

“Indeed! ” 

“ I will go back as soon as ever I can.” 

“Well, that can’t be to-day, for one thing.” 

The evening of that same day Judith was removed 
into the adjoining room, “ her room,” as Miss Trevisa 
designated it. “ And mind you sleep soundly, and don’t 
trouble me in the night. Natural sleep is as suitable to 
me as green peas to duck.” 

When, next morning, the girl awoke, her eyes ranged 
round and lighted everywhere on familiar objects. The 
two mezzotints of Happy and Deserted Auburn, the old 
and battered pieces of Dresden ware, vases with flowers 
encrusted round them, but with most of the petals broken 
off — vases too injured to be of value to a purchaser, valu- 
able to her because full of reminiscences — the tapestry 
firescreen, the painted fans with butterflies on them, the 
mirror blotched with damp, the inlaid wafer-box and 
ruler, the old snuffer-tray. Her eyes filled with tears. A 
gathering together into one room of old trifles did not 
make that strange room to be home. It was the father, 
the dear father, who, now that he was taken away, made 
home an impossibility, and the whole world, however 
crowded with old familiar odds and ends, to be desert and 
strange. The sight of all her old “ crinkum'-crankums,” 
as she had called them, made Judith’s heart smart. It 
was kindly meant by Coppinger to purchase all these 
things and collect them there ; but it was a mistake of 
judgment. Grateful she was, not gratified. 

In the little room there was an ottoman with a wool- 
work cover representing a cluster of dark red, pink, and 
white roses ; and at each corner of the ottoman was a 
tassel, which had been a constant source of trouble to 
Judith, as the tassels would come off, sometimes because 
the cat played with them, sometimes because Jamie 
pulled them off in mischief, sometimes because they 
caught in her dress. Her father had embroidered 
those dreadful roses on a buff ground one winter when 
confined to the house by a heavy cold and cough. She 


132 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


valued that ottoman for his sake, and would not have 
suffered it to go into the sale had she possessed any- 
place she could regard as her own where to put it. She 
needed no such article to remind her of the dear father— 
the thought of him would be forever present to her with^ 
out the assistance of ottomans to refresh her memory. 

On this ottoman, when dressed, Judith seated herself, 
and let her hands rest in her lap. She was better; she 
would soon be well ; and when well would take the first 
opportunity to dej)art. 

The door was suddenly thrown open by her aunt, and 
in the doorway stood Coppinger looking at her. He 
raised his hand to his hat in salutation, but said nothing. 
She was startled and unable to speak. In another mo- 
ment the door was shut again. 

That day she resolved that nothing should detain her 
longer than she was forced. Jamie — her own dear Jamie 
— came to see her, and the twins were locked in each 
other’s arms. 

“Oh, Ju! darling Ju! You are quite well, are you 
not ? And Captain Coppinger has given me a gray 
donkey instead of Tib ; and I’m to ride it about when- 
ever I choose ! ” 

“ But, dear, Mr. Menaida has no stable, and no pad- 
dock.” 

“ Oh, Ju ! that’s nothing. I’m coming up here, and 
we shall be together — the donkey and you and me and 
Aunt Dunes ! ” 

“No, Jamie. Nothing of the sort. Listen to me. You 
remain at Mr. Menaida’s. I am coming back.” 

“ But I’ve already brought up my clothes.” 

“ You take them back. Attend to me. You do not 
come here. I go back to Mr. Menaida’s immediately.” 

“ But, Ju ! you’ve got all your pretty things from the 
parsonage here ! ” 

“ They are not mine. Mr. Coppinger bought them for 
himself.” 

“ But — the donkey ? ” 

“Leave the donkey here. Pay attention to my words. 
I lay a strict command on you. As you love me, Jamie, 
do not leave Mr. Menaida’s ; remain there till my rel 
turn.” 

That night there was a good deal of noise in the house. 
J-udith’s room lay in a wing, nevertheless she heard the 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


133 


riot, for the house was not large, and the sounds from 
the hall penetrated every portion of it. She was fright^ 
ened, and went into Miss Trevisa’s room. 

“Aunt! what is this dreadful racket about ? ” 

“Go to sleep — you cannot have every one shut his 
mouth because of you.” 

“ But what is it, auntie ? ” 

“ It is nothing but the master has folk with him, if you 
wish particularly to know. The whole cargo of the Black 
Prince has been run, and not a finger has been laid by 
the coast-guard on a single barrel or bale. So they are 
celebrating their success. Go to bed and sleep. It is 
naught to you.” 

“ I cannot sleep, aunt. They are singing now.” 

“Why should they not; have you aught against it? 
You are not mistress here, that I am aware of.” 

“ But, auntie, are there many down-stairs ? ” 

“ I do not know. It is no concern of mine — and cer- 
tainly none of yours.” 

Judith was silenced for a while by her aunt’s ill-humor; 
but she did not return to her room. Presently she 
asked — 

“ Are you sure, aunt, that Jamie is gone back to Pol- 
zeath ? ” 

Miss Trevisa kicked the stool from under her feet, in 
her impatience. 

“ Eeally I you drive me desperate. I did not bargain 
for this. Am I to tear over the country on post-horses 
to seek a nephew here and a niece there ? I can’t tell 
where Jamie is, and what is more, I do not care. I’ll do 
my duty by you both. I’ll do no more ; and that has 
been forced on me, it was not sought by me. Heaven be 
my witness.” 

Judith returned to her room. The hard and sour 
woman would afford her no information. 

In her room she threw herself on her bed and began to 
think. She was in the very home and head-quarters of 
contrabandism. But was smuggling a sin ? Surely not 
that, or her father would have condemned it decidedly. 
She remembered his hesitation relative to it, in the last 
conversation they had together. Perhaps it was not 
actually a sin— she could recall no text in Scripture that 
denounced it — but it was a thing forbidden, and though 
she did not understand why it was forbidden, she con- 


134 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


sidered that it could not be an altogether honorable and 
righteous trafiic. Judith was unable to rest. It was not 
the noise that disturbed her so much as her uneasiness 
about Jamie. Had he obeyed her and gone back to 
Uncle Zachie ? Or had he neglected her injunction, and 
was he in the house, was he below along with the revel- 
lers ? 

She opened the door gently, and stole along the pas- 
sage to the head of the stairs, and listened. She could 
smell the fumes of tobacco ; but to these she was familiar. 
The atmosphere of Mr. Menaida’s cottage was redolent 
of the Virginian weed. The noise was, however, some- 
thing to which she was utterly unaccustomed : the bois- 
terous merriment, the shouts, and occasional oaths. 
Then a fiddle was played. There was disputation, a 
pause, then the fiddle recommenced; it played a jig; 
there was a clatter of feet, then a roar of laughter — and 
then — she was almost sure she heard the voice of her 
brother. 

Eegardless of herself, thinking only of him, without a 
moment’s consideration, she ran down the stairs and 
threw open the door into the great kitchen or hall.. 

It was full of men — wild, rough fellows — drinking and 
smoking ; there were lights and a fire. The atmosphere 
was rank with spirits and tobacco ; on a chair sat a sailor 
fiddling, and in the midst of the room, on a table, was 
Jamie dancing a jig, to the laughter and applause of the 
revellers. 

The moment Judith appeared silence ensued — the men 
were surprised to see a pale and delicate girl stand be- 
fore them, with a crown of gold like a halo round her 
ivory-white face. But Judith took no notice of anyone 
there — her eyes were on her brother, and her hand raised 
to attract his attention. Judith had been in bed, but, 
disturbed by the uproar, had risen and drawn on her 
gown ; her feet, however, were bare, and her magnificent 
hair poured over her shoulders unbound. Her whole 
mind, her whole care, was for Jamie ; on herself not a 
thought rested ; she had forgotten that she was but half 
clothed. 

“Jamie! Jamie!” she cried. “My brother! my 
brother ! ” 

The fiddler ceased, lowered his violin, and stared at 
her. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


135 


‘‘ Ju, let me alone ! It is such fun,” said the boy. 

“Jamie! this instant you shall come with me. Get 
down off the table ! ” 

As he hesitated, and looked round to the men who had 
been applauding- him for support against his sister, she 
went to the table, and caught him by the feet. 

“ Jamie ! in pity to me I Jamie ! think— papa is but 
just dead.” 

Then tears of sorrow, shame, and entreaty filled her * 
eyes. 

“ No, Ju I I’m not tied to your apron-strings,” said the 
lad, disengaging himself. 

But in an instant he was caught from the table by 
the strong arm of Coppinger, and thrust toward the 
door. 

“ Judith, you should not have come here.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Coppinger — and Jamie ! why did you let 
him ” 

Coppinger drew the girl from the room into the pas- 
sage. 

“Judith, not for the world would I have had you here,” 
said he, in an agitated voice. “ I’ll kill your aunt for 
letting you come down.” 

“Mr. Coppinger, she knew nothing of my coming. 
Come I must — ^I heard Jamie’s voice.” 

“ Go,” said the Captain, shaking the boy. He was 
ashamed of himself and angry. “ Beware how you dis- 
obey your sister again.” 

Coppinger’s face was red as fire. He turned to Ju- 
dith — 

“ Your feet are bare. Let me carry you up-stairs — 
carry you once more.” 

She shook her head. “ As I came down so I can re- 
turn.” 

“ Will you forgive me ? ” he said, in a low tone. 

“Heaven forgive you,” she answered, and burst into 
tears. “ You will break my heart, I foresee it.” 


CHAPTEE XIX. 


A GOLDFISH. 

Next day — just in the same way as the day before — ■ 
when Judith was risen and dressed, the door was thrown 
open, and again Coppinger was revealed, standing out- 
side, looking at her with a strange expression, and say- 
ing no word. 

But Judith started up from her chair and went to him 
in the passage, put forth her delicate white hand, laid 
it on his cuff, and said : “ Mr. Coppinger, may I speak to 
you ? ” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ Where you like — down-stairs will be best, in the hall 
if no one be there.” 

“ It is empty.” 

He stood aside and allowed her to precede him. 

The staircase was narrow, and it would have been 
dark but for a small dormer-window through which light 
came from a squally skj^ covered with driving white 
vapors. But such light as entered from a white and 
wan sun fell on her head as she descended — that head of 
hair was like the splendor of a beech-tree touched by 
frost before the leaves fall. 

Coppinger descended after her. 

When they were both in the hall, he indicated his 
arm-chair by the hearth for her to sit in, and she 
obeyed. She was weak, and now also nervous. She 
must speak to the smuggler firmly, and that required 
all her courage. 

The room was tidy ; all traces of the debauch of the 
preceding night had disappeared. 

Coppinger stood a few paces from her. He seemed 
to know that what she was going to say would displease 
him, and he did not meet her clear eyes, but looked with 
a sombre frown upon the floor. 

Judith put the fingers of her right hand to her heart 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


137 


to bid it cease beating so fast, and then rushed into 
what she had to say, fearing lest delay should heighten 
the difficulty of saying it. 

“ I am so — so thankful to you, sir, for what you have 
done for me. My aunt tells me that you found and car- 
ried me here. I had lost my way on the rocks, and but 
for you I would have died.” 

“ Yes,” he saM, raising his eyes suddenly and look- 
ing piercingly into hers, “but for me you would have 
died.” 

“ I must tell you how deeply grateful I am for this and 
for other kindnesses. I shall never forget that this 
foolish, silly, little life of mine I owe to you.” 

Agari her heart was leaping so furiously as to need 
the pressure of her fingers on it to check it. 

“We are quits,” said Coppinger, slowly. “ You came 
— you ran a great risk to save me. But for you I 
might be dead. So this rude and worthless — this evil 
life of mine,” he held out his hands, both palms before 
her, and spoke with quivering voice — “I owe to you.” 

“Then,” said Judith, “as you say, we are quits. Yet 
no. If one account is cancelled, another remains un- 
closed. I threw you down and broke your bones. So 
there still remains a score against me.” 

“ That I have forgiven long ago,” said he. “ Throw me 
down, break me, kill me, do with me what you will — and 
— I will kiss your hand.” 

“ I do not wish to have my hand kissed,” said Judith, 
hastily, “ I let you understand that before.” 

He put his elbow against the mantel-shelf, and leaned 
his brow against his open hand, looking down at her, so 
she could not see his face without raising her eyes, but 
he could rest his on her and study her, note her distress, 
the timidity with which she spoke, the wince when he 
said a word that implied his attachment to her. 

“I have not only to thank you. Captain Coppinger, 
but I have to say good-by.” 

“ What — go ? ” 

“ Yes— I shall go back to Mr. Menaida to-day.” 

He stamped, and his face became blood-red. “ You 
shall not. I will it — here you stay.” 

“It cannot be,” said Judith, after a moment’s pause 
to let his passion subside. “ You are not my guardian, 
though very generously you have undertaken to be 


138 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


valuer for me in dilapidations. I must go, I and Ja- 
mie.” 

He shook his head. He feared to speak, his anger 
choked him. 

“ I cannot remain here myself, and certainly I will not 
let Jamie be here.” 

“ Is it because of last night’s foolery you say that ? ” 

“I am responsible for my brother. He is not very 
clever ; he is easily led astray. There is no one to 
think for him, to care for him, but myself. I could 
never let him run the risk of such a thing happening 
again.” 

“ Confound the boy ! ” burst forth Coppinger. “ Are 
you going to bring him up as a milk-sop ? You are 
wrong altogether in the way you manage him.” 

“ I can but follow my conscience.” 

“ And is it because of him that you go ? ” 

“ Not because of him only.” 

“ But I have spoken to your aunt ; she consents.” 

“But I do not,” said Judith. 

He stamped again, passionately. 

“ I am not the man who will bear to be disobeyed and 
my will crossed. I say — Here you shall stay.” 

Judith waited a moment, looking at him steadily out 
of her clear, glittering iridescent eyes, and said slowly, 
“ I am not the girl to be obliged to stay where my com- 
mon-sense and my heart say Stay not.” 

He folded his arms, lowered his chin on his breast, 
and- sti^ode up and down the room. Then, suddenly, he 
stood still opposite her and asked, in a threatening tone : 

“ Do you not like your room ? Does that not please 
your humor ? ” 

“ It has been most kind of you to collect all my little 
bits of rubbish there. I feel how good you have been, 
how full of thought for me ; but, for all that, I cannot 
stay.” 

“ Why not “? ” 

“I have said, on one account, because of Jamie.” 

He bit his lips — “ I hate that boy.” 

“ Then most certainly he cannot be here. He must be 
with those who love him.” 

“ Then stay.” 

“ I cannot — I will not. I have a will as well as yoa 
Hy dear papa always said that my will was strong,” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 139 

“ You are the only person who has ever dared to re- 
sist me.” 

“ That may be ; I am daring— because you have been 
kind.” 

“ Kind to you. Yes — to you only.” 

“ It may be so, and because kind to me, and me only, 
I, and I only, presume to say No when you say Yes.” 

He came again to the fireplace and again leaned 
against the mantel-shelf. He was trembling with pas- 
sion. 

“ And what if I say that, if you go, I will turn old 
Dunes — I mean your aunt — out of the house ? ” 

“You will not say it, Mr. Coppinger; you are too 
noble, too generous, to take a mean revenge.” 

“ Oh ! you allow there is some good in me ? ” 

“ I thankfully and cheerfully protest there is a great 
deal of good in you — and I would there were more.” 

“ Come — stay here and teach me to be good — be my 
crutch ; I will lean on you, and you shall help me along 
the right way.” 

“You are too great a weight, Mr. Coppinger,” said 
she, smiling — but it was a frightened and a forced smile. 
“ You would bend and break the little crutch.” 

He heaved a long breath. He was looking at her from 
under his hand and his bent brows. 

“ You are cruel — to deny me a chance. And what if I 
were to say that I am hungry, sick at heart, and faint. 
Would you turn your back and leave me ? ” 

“ No, assuredly not.” ■ 

“ I am hungry.” 

She looked up at him, and was frightened 
ter in his eyes. 

“ I am hungry for the sight of you, for the sound of 
your voice.” 

She did not say anything to this, but sat, with her 
hands on her lap, musing, uncertain how to deal with 
this man, so strange, impulsive, and yet so submissive to 
her, and even appealing to her pity. 

“ Mr. Coppinger, I have to think of and care for Jamie, 
and he Jakes up all my thoughts and engrosses all my 
time.” 

“ Jamie, again ! ” 

“ So th^ I cannot feed and teach another orphan.* 

“Put off"" your departure — a week. Grant me that 


by the 


140 


IN TBE ROAH OE the SEA. 


Then you will have time to get quite strong, and also 
you will be able to see whether it is not possible for 
you to live here. Here is your aunt — it is natural and 
right that you should be with her. She has been made 
your guardian by your father. Do you not bow to his 
directions.” 

“ Mr. Coppinger, I cannot stay here.” 

“ I am at a disadvantage,” he exclaimed. “ Man 
always is when carrying on a contest with a woman. 
Stay — stay here and listen to me.” He put out his hand 
and pressed her back into the chair, for she was about to 
rise. “Listen to what I say. You do not know— you 
cannot know — how near death you and I — yes, you and 
I were, chained together.” His deep voice shook. 
“ You and I were on the face of the cliff. There was but 
one little strip, the width of my hand ” — he held out his 
palm before her — “ and that was not secure. It was slid- 
ing away under my feet. Below was death, certain death 
— a wretched death. I held you. That little chain tied 
us two — us two together. All your life and mine hung 
on was my broken arm and broken collar-bone. I held 
you to me with my right arm and the chain. I did not 
think we should live. I thought that together — chained 
together, I holding you — so we would die — so we would 
be found — and my only care, my only prayer was, if so, 
that so we might be washed to sea and sink together, I 
holding you and chained to you, and you to me. I prayed 
that we might never be found; for I thought if rude 
hands were laid on us that the chain would be unloosed, 
my arm unlocked from about you, and that we should be 
carried to separate graves. I could not endure that 
thought. Let us go down together — bound, clasped to- 
gether — into the depths of the deep sea, and there rest. 
But it was not to be so. I carried you over that stage 
of infinite danger. An angel or a devil — I cannot say 
which— held me up. And then I swore that never in life 
should you be loosed from me, as I trusted that in death 
we should have remained bound together. See ! ” He 
put his hand to her head and drew a lock of her golden 
hair and wound it about his hand and arm. “ You have 
me fast now — fast in a chain of gold — of gold infinitely 
precious to me — infinitely strong — and you will cast me 
off, who never thought to cast you off when tied to you 
with a chain of iron. What say you ? Will you stand 


Ijsr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


141 


in safety on your cliff of pride and integrity and un- 
loose the golden band and say, ‘ Go down — down. I 
know nothing in you to love. You are naught to me but 
a robber, a wrecker, a drunkard, a murderer — go down 
into Hell r ” 

In his quivering excitement he acted the whole scene, 
unconscious that he was so doing, and the drops of 
agony stood on his brow and rolled — drip — drip — drip 
from it. Man does not weep ; his tears exude more bitter 
than those that flow from the eyes, and they distil from 
his pores. 

Judith was awed by the intensity of passion in the 
man, but not changed in her purpose. His vehemence 
reacted on her, calming her, giving her determination to 
finish the scene decisively and finally. 

“ Mr. Coppinger,” she said, looking up to him, who 
still held her by the hair wound about his hand and 
arm, “ it is you who hold me in chains, not I you. And 
so I — your prisoner— must address a gaoler. Am I to 
speak in chains, or will you release me ? ” 

He shook his head, and clenched his hand on the gold 
hair. 

“ Very well,” said she, “ so it must be ; I, bound, 
plead my cause with you — at a disadvantage. This is 
what I must say at the risk of hurting you ; and. Heav- 
en be my witness, I would not wound one who has been 
so good to me — one to whom I owe my life, my power 
now to speak and entreat.” She paused a minute to 
gain breath and strengthen herself for what she had to 
say. 

“ Mr. Coppinger — do you not yourself see that it is 
quite impossible that I should remain in this house — 
that I should have anything more to do with you? 
Consider how I have been brought up — what my 
thoughts have been. I have had, from earliest child- 
hood, my dear papa’s example and teachings, sinking 
into my heart till they have colored my very life-blood. 
My little world and your great one are quite different. 
What I love and care for is folly to you, and your pur- 
suits and pleasures are repugnant to me. You are an 
eagle — a bird of prey.” 

A bird of prey,” repeated Coppinger. 

“ And you soar and fight, and dive, and rend in your . 
own element ; whereas I am a little silver trout— — ” 


142 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ No ” — he drew up his arm wound round with her 
hair — “ No— a goldfish.” 

“ Well, so be it ; a goldfish swimming in my own 
crystal element, and happy in it. You would not take 
me out of it to gasp and die. Trust me, Captain Cop- 
pinger, I could not — even if I would — live in your 
world.” 

She put up her hands to his arm and drew some of 
the hair through his fingers, and unwound it from his 
sleeve. He made no resistance. He watched her, in a 
dream. He had heard every word she had said, and he 
knew that she spoke the truth. They belonged to differ- 
ent realms of thought and sensation. He could not 
breathe — he would stifle — in hers, and it was possible — 
it was certain — that she could not endure the strong, 
rough quality of his. 

Her delicate fingers touched his hand, and sent a 
spasm to his heart. She was drawing away another 
strand of hair, and untwisting it from about his arm, 
passing the wavy, fire-gold from one hand to the other. 
And as every strand was taken off, so went light and 
hope from him, and despair settled down on his dark 
spirit. 

He was thinking whether it would not have been bet- 
ter to have thrown himself down when he had her in his 
arms, and bound to him by the chain. 

Then he laughed. 

She looked up, and caught his wild eye. There was a 
timid inquiry in her look, and he answered it. 

“ You may unwind your hair from my arm, but it is 
woven round and round my heart, and you cannot loose 
it thence/’ 

She drew another strand away, and released that also 
from his arm. There remained now but one red-gold 
band of hair fastening her to him. He looked entreat- 
ingly at her, and then at the hair. 

“ It must indeed be so,” she said, and released herself 
wholly. 

Then she stood up, a little timidly, for she could not 
trust him in his passion and his despair. But he did 
not stir ; he looked at her with fixed, dreamy eyes. She 
left her place, and moved toward the door. She had 
gone forth from Mr. Menaida’s without hat or other 
cover for her head than the cloak with its hood, and that 


IW THE nOAR OE THE SEA. 


143 


she had lost. She must return bare-headed. She had 
reached the door ; and there she waved him a farewell. 

“ Goldfish ! ” he cried. 

She halted. 

“ Goldfish, come here ; one — one word only.” 

She hesitated whether to yield. The man was dan- 
g*erous. But she considered that with a few strides he 
might overtake her if she tried to escape. Therefore 
she returned toward him, but came not near enough for 
him to touch her. 

“ Hearken to me,” said he. “ It may be as you say. It 
is as you say. You have your world ; I have mine. You 
could not live in mine, nor I in yours.” But his voice 
thrilled. “ Swear to me — swear to me now — that while 
I live no other shall hold you, as I would have held you, 
to his side ; that no other shall take your hair and wind 
it round him, as I have — I could not endure that. Will 
you swear to me that ? — and you shall go.” 

“ Indeed I will ; indeed, indeed I will.” 

“ Beware how you break this oath. Let him bewai^e 
who dares to seek you.” He was silent, looking on the 
ground, his arms folded. So he stood for some minutes, 
lost in thought; Then suddenly he cried out, “ Gold- 
fish ! ” 

He had found a single hair, long — a yard long — of the 
most intense red-gold, lustrous as a cloud in the west 
over the sunken sun. It had been left about his arm and 
hand. 

“Goldfish!” 

But she was gone. 


CHAPTEE XX. 


BOUGHT AND SOLD. 

Cruel Coppinger remained brooding in the place 
where he had been standing, and as he stood there his 
face darkened. He was a man of imperious will and vio- 
lent passions ; a man unwont to curb himself ; accus- 
tomed to sweep out of his path whoever or whatever 
stood between him and the accomplishment of his pur- 
pose ; a man who never asked himself whether that pur- 
pose were good or bad. He had succumbed, in a man- 
ner strange and surprising to himself, to the influence 
of Judith — a sort of witchery over him that subdued his 
violence and awed him into gentleness and modesty. 
But when her presence was withdrawn the revolt of the 
man’s lawless nature began. Who was this who had 
dared to oppose her will to his ? a mere child of eigh- 
teen. Women were ever said to be a perverse genera- 
tion, and loved to domineer over men ; and man was 
weak to suffer it. So thinking, chafing, he had worked 
himself into a simmering rage when Miss Trevisa en- 
tered the hall, believing it to be empty. Seeing him, 
she was about to withdraw, when he shouted to her to 
stay. 

“ I beg your pardon for intruding, sir ; I am in quest 
of my niece. Those children keep me in a whirl like a 
teetotum.” 

“ Your niece is gone.” 

“ Gone ! where to *? ” 

“ Back — I suppose to that old fool, Menaida. He is 
meet to be a companion for her and that idiot, her 
brother ; not I — am to be spurned from her presence.” 

Miss Trevisa was surprised, but she said nothing. 
She knew his moodfe. 

“ Stand there. Mother Dunes ! ” said Coppinger, in his 
anger and humiliation, glad to have some one on whom 
he could pour out the lava that boiled up in his burning 


THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


145 


breast. “ Listen to me. She has told me that we belong- 
to different worlds — she and I — and to different races, 
kinds of being, and that there can be no fellowship be- 
twixt us. Where I am she will not be. Between me and 
you there is a great gulf fixed — see you % and I am as 
Dives tormented in my flame, and she stands yonder, 
serene, in cold and complacent blessedness, and will not 
cross to me with her finger dipped in cold water to cool 
my tongue; and as for my coming near to her” he 
laughed fiercely — “ that can never be.” 

“ Did she say all that ? ” asked Miss Trevisa. 

“ She looked it ; she implied it, if she did not say it 
in these naked words. And, what is more,” shouted he, 
coming before Aunt Dionysia, threateningly, so that she 
recoiled, “it is true. When she sat there in yonder 
chair, and I stood here by this hearthstone, and she 
spoke, I knew it w^as true ; I saw it all — the great gulf 
unspanned by any bridge. I knew that none could ever 
bridge it, and there we were, apart for ever, I in my fire 
burning, she in Blessedness — indifferent.” 

“ I am ver}^ sorry,” said Miss Trevisa, “ that Judith 
should so have misconducted herself. My brother 
brought her up in a manner to my mind, most improper 
for a young girl. He made her read Bollin’s ‘ Ancient 
History,’ and Blair’s ‘ Chronological Tables,’ and really 
upon my word, I cannot say what else.” 

“I do not care how it was,” said Coppinger. “But 
here stands the gulf.” 

“ Eollin is in sixteen octavo volumes,” said Aunt Dio- 
nysia ; “ and they are thick also.” 

Coppinger strode about the room, with his hands in his 
deep coat pockets, his head down. 

“ My dear brother,” continued Miss Trevisa, apologe- 
tically, “ made of Judith his daily companion, told her 
all he thought, asked her opinion, as though she were 
a full-grown woman, and one whose opinion was worth 
having, whereas he never consulted me, never cared to 
talk to me about anything, and the consequence is the 
child has grown up without that respect for her elders 
and betters, and that deference for the male sex which 
the male sex expects. I am sure when I was a girl, and 
of her age, I was very different, very different indeed.” 

“ Of that I have not the smallest doubt,” sneered Cop- 
pinger, “ But never mind about yourself. It is of her 


146 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


1 am speaking*. She is g*one, has left me, and I cannot 
endure it. I cannot endure it,” he repeated. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Aunt Dionysia, you must 
excuse me saying it. Captain Coppinger, but you place 
me in a difficult position. I am the guardian of my niece, 
though, goodness knows, I never desired it, and I don’t 
know what to think. It is very flattering and kind, and 
I esteem it great goodness in you to speak of J udith 
with such warmth, but ” 

“ Goodness ! kindness ! ” exclaimed Coppinger. “ I 
am good and kind to her ! She forced me to it. I can 
be nothing else, and she throws me at her feet and 
tramples on me.” 

“ I am sure your sentiments, sir, are — are estimable ; 
but, feeling as you seem to imply toward Judith, I 
hardly know what to say. Bless me ! what a scourge to 
my shoulders these children are : nettles stinging and 
blistering my skin, and not allowing me a moment’s 
peace ! ” 

“ I imply nothing,” said Coppinger. “ I speak out 
direct and plain what I mean. I love her. She has 
taken me, she turns me about, she gets my heart between 
her little hands and tortures it.” 

“ Then, surely. Captain, you cannot ask me to let her 
be here. You are most kind to express yourself in this 
manner about the pert hussy, but, as she is my niece, 
and I am responsible for her, I must do my duty by her, 
and not expose her to be — talked about. Bless me ! ” 
gasped Aunt Dunes, “ when I was her age I never would 
have put myself into such a position as to worry my 
aunt out of her seven senses, and bring her nigh to dis- 
traction.” 

, “ I will marry her, and make her mistress of my house 

and all I have,” said Coppinger. 

Miss Trevisa slightly courtesied, then said,“ I am sure 
you are over-indulgent, but what is to become of me ? I 
have no doubt it will be very comfortable and acceptable 
to Judith to hear this, but — what is to become of me ? It 
would not be very delightful for me to be housekeeper 
here under my own niece, a pert, insolent, capricious 
hussy. You can see at once. Captain Coppinger, that I 
cannot consent to that.” 

The woman had the shrewdness to know that she 
could be useful to Coppinger, and the selfishness that 


TK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


147 


induced her to make terms with him to secure her own 
future, and to show him that she could stand in his way 
till he yielded to them. 

“ I never asked to have these children thrust down my 
throat, like the fish-bone that strangled Lady Godiva — 
no, who was it ? Earl Godiva ; but I thank my stars I 
never waded through Eollin, and most certainly kept 
nay hands off Blair. Of course. Captain Coppinger, it is 
right and proper of you to address yourself to me, as 
the guardian of my niece, before speaking to her.” 

“I have spoken to her and she spurns me.” 

“ Naturally, because you spoke to her before address- 
ing me on the subject. My dear brother — I will do him 
this justice — was very emphatic on this point. But you 
see, sir, my consent can never be given.” 

“ I do not ask your consent.” 

“ Judith will never take you without it.” 

“Consent or no consent,” said Coppinger, “that is a 
secondary matter. The first is, she does not like me. 
whereas I — I love her. I never loved a woman before. I 
knew not what love was. I laughed at the fools, as I 
took them to be, who sold themselves into the hands of 
women ; but now, I cannot live without her. I can think 
of nothing but her all day. I am in a fever, and cannot 
sleep at night — all because she is tormenting me.” 

All at once, exhausted by his passion, desperate at 
seeing no chance of success, angry at being flouted by a 
child, he threw himself into the chair, and settled his 
chin on his breast, and folded his arms. 

“ Go on,” said he. “ Tell me what is my way out of 
this.” 

“ You cannot expect my help or my advice. Captain, 
so as to forward what would be most unsatisfactory to 
me.” 

“ What ! do you grudge her to me ? ” 

“ Not that ; but, if she were here, what would oecome 
of me ? Should I be turned out into the cold at my age 
by this red-headed hussy, to find a home for myself with 
strangers ? Here I never would abide with her as mis- 
tress, never.” 

“ I care naught about you.” 

“ No, of that I am aware, to my regret, sir ; but that 
makes it all the more necessary for me to take care for 
myself.” 


TR THE nOAB OF THE SEA. 




“ I see,” said Coppinger, “ I must buy you. Is your 
aid worth it % Will she listen to you % ” 

“ I can make her listen to me,” said Aunt Dunes, “ if 
it be worth my while. At my age, having roughed it, 
having no friends, I must think of myself and provide 
for the future, when I shall be too old to work.” 

“ Name your price.” 

Miss Trevisa did not answer for a while ; she was con- 
sidering the terms she would make. To her coarse and 
soured mind there was nothing to scruple at in aiding 
Coppinger in his suit. The Trevisas were of a fine old 
Cornish stock, but then Judith took after her mother, 
the poor Scottish governess, and Aunt Dunes did not 
fef?l toward her as though she were of her own kin. The 
girl looked like her mother. She had no right, in Miss 
Trevisa’s eyes, to bear the name of her father, for her 
father ought to have known better than stoop to marry 
a beggarly, outlandish governess. Not very logical rea- 
soning, but what woman, where her feelings are engaged, 
does reason logically ? Aunt Dunes had never loved her 
niece ; she felt an inner repulsion, such as sprang from 
encountering a nature superior, purer, more refined than 
her own, and the mortification of being forced to admit 
to herself that it was so. Judith, moreover, was costing 
her money, and Miss Trevisa parted with her hard-earned 
savings as reluctantly as with her heart’s blood. She 
begrudged the girl and her brother every penny she w^as 
forced, or believed she would be forced, to expend upon 
them. And was she doing the girl an injury in helping 
her to a marriage that would assure her a home and a 
comfortable income ? 

Aunt Dionysia knew well enough that things went on 
in Pentyre Glaze that were not to be justified, that Cop- 
pinger’s mode of life was not one calculated to make a 
girl of Judith’s temperament happy, but — “Hoity- 
toity ! ” said Miss Trevisa to herself, “ if girls marry, 
they must take men as they find them. Beggars must 
not be choosers. You must not look a gift horse in the 
mouth. No trout can be eaten apart from its bones, nor 
a rose plucked that is free from thorns.” She herself 
had accommodated herself to the ways of the house, to 
the moods and manners of Coppinger ; and if she could 
do that, so could a mongrel Trevisa. What was good 
enough for herself was over-good for Judith. 


m THE nOAR OF THE SEA. 




She had been saddled with these children, much 
against her wishes, and if she shifted the saddle to the 
shoulders of one willing to bear it, why not ? She had 
duties to perform to her own self as well as to those 
thrust on her by the dead hand of that weak, that incon- 
siderate brother of hers, Peter Trevisa. 

Would her brother have approved of her forwarding 
this union ? That was a question that did not trouble 
her much. Peter did what he thought best for his 
daughter when he was alive, stuffing her head with Rol- 
lin and Blair, and now that he was gone, she must do 
the best she could for her, and here was a chance offered 
that she would be a fool not to snap at. 

Nor did she concern herself greatly whether Judith’s 
happiness were at stake. Ploity-toity ! girls’ happiness ! 
They are bound to make themselves happy when they 
find themselves. The world was not made to fit them, 
but they to accommodate themselves to the places in 
which they found themselves in the world. 

Miss Trevisa had for some days seen the direction 
matters were taking, she had seen clearly enough the in- 
fatuation — yes, infatuation she said it was — that had pos- 
sessed Coppinger. What he could see in the girl passed 
her wits to discover. To her, Judith was an odious little 
minx — very like her mother. Miss Trevisa, therefore, had 
had time to weigh the advantages and the disadvantages 
that might spring to her, should Coppinger persist in his 
suit and succeed; and she had considered whether it 
would be worth her while to help or to hinder his suit. 

“ You put things,” said Aunt Dionysia, “ in a blunt 
and a discourteous manner, such as might offend a lady of 
delicacy, like myself, who am in delicacy a perfect guava 
jelly ; but. Captain, I know your ways, as I ought to, 
having been an inmate of this house for many years. It 
is no case of buying and selling, as you insinuate, but 
the case is plainly this : I know the advantage it will be 
to my niece to be comfortably provided for. She and 
Jamie have between them but about a thousand pounds, 
a sum to starve, and not to live, upon. They have no 
home and no relative in the world but myself, who am 
incapable of giving them a home and of doing anything 
for them except at an excruciating sacrifice. If Judith 
be found, through your offer, a home, then Jamie also is 
provided for.” 


150 


TN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


He said nothing* to this, but moved his feet impa- 
tiently. She went on : “ The boy must be provMed for. 
And if Judith become your wife, not only will it be 
proper for you to see that he is so, but Judith will g-ive 
neither you nor me our natural rest until the boy is com- 
fortable and happy.” 

“ Confound the boy ! ” 

“It is all very well to say that, but he who would have 
anything to say to Judith must reckon to have to con- 
sider Jamie also. They are inseparable. Now, I assume 
that by Judith’s, marriage Jamie is cared for. But how 
about myself % Is every one to lie in clover and I in 
stubble ? Am I to rack my brains to find a home for my 
nephew and niece, only that I may be thrust out myself ? 
To find for them places at your table, that I may be de- 
prived of a crust and a bone under it % If no one else 
will consider me, I must consider myself. I am the last 
representative of an ancient and honorable family — ” 
She saw Coppinger move his hand, and thought he ex- 
pressed dissent. She added hastily, “ As to Judith and 
Jamie, they take after their Scotch mother. I do not 
reckon them as Trevisas.” 

“ Come — tell me what you want,” said Coppinger, im- 
patiently. 

“I want to be secure for my old age, that I do not 
spend it in the poor-house.” 

“ What do you ask ? ” 

“ Give me an annuity of fifty pounds for my life, and 
Othello Cottage that is on your land.” 

“ You ask enough.” 

“ You will never get Judith without granting me that.” 

“ Well — get Judith to be mine, and you shall have it.” 

“ Will you swear to it ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And give me — I desire that — the promise in writ- 
ing.” 

“ You shall have it.” 

“ Then I will help you.” 

“ How ? ” 

“ Leave that to me. I am her guardian.” 

“ But not of her heart ? ” 

“ Leave her to me. You shall win her,” 

“ How ? ” 

“ Through Jamie.” 


CHAPTEE XXI. 


OTHELLO COTTAGE. 

^ To revert to the old life as far as possible under changed 
circumstances, to pass a sponge over a terrible succes- 
sion of pictures, to brush out the vision of horrors from 
her eyes, and shake the burden of the past off her head 
— if for a while only — was a joy to Judith. She had been 
oppressed with nightmare, and now the night was over, 
her brain clear, and should forget its dreams. 

She and Jamie were together, and were children once 
more ; her anxiety for her brother was allayed, and she 
had broken finally with Cruel Coppinger. Her heart 
bounded with relief. Jamie was simple and docile as of 
old ; and she rambled with him through the lanes, along 
the shore, upon the downs, avoiding only one tract of 
common and one cove. 

A child’s heart is elastic ; eternal droopings it cannot 
bear. Beaten down, bruised and draggled by the storm, 
it springs up when the sun shines, and laughs into 
flower. It is no eucalyptus that ever hangs its leaves ; 
it is a sensitive plant, wincing, closing, at a trifle, feel- 
ing acutely, but not for long. 

And now Judith had got an idea into her head, that 
she communicated to Jamie, and her sanguine anticipa- 
tions kindled his torpid mind. She had resolved to make 
little shell baskets and other chimney ornaments, not 
out of the marine shells cast up by the sea, for on that 
coast none came ashore whole, but out of the myriad 
snail-shells that strew the downs. They were of all sizes, 
from a pin’s head to a gooseberry,^ and of various colors 
— salmon-pink, sulphur-yellow, rich brown and pure 
white. By judicious arrangement of sizes and of colors, 
with a little gum on cardboard, what wonderful erections 
might be made, certain to charm the money out of the 
pocket, and bring in a little fortune to the twins. 

“ And then,” said Jamie, “ I can build a linney, and 
rent a paddock, and keep my Neddy at Polzeath.” 


152 


m TBE ROAR OF TEE SEA. 


“ And,” said Judith, “ we need be no longer a burden 
to Auntie.” 

The climax of constructive genius would be exhibited 
in the formation of a shepherd and shepherdess, for 
which Judith was to paint faces and hands ; but their 
hats, their garments, their shoes, were to be made of 
shells. The shepherdess was to have a basket on her 
arm, and in this basket were to be flowers, not made out 
of complete shells, but out of particles of sea-shells of 
rainbow colors. 

What laughter, what exultation there was over the 
shepherd and shepherdess ! How in imagination they 
surpassed the fascinations of Dresden china figures. And 
the price at which they were to be sold was settled. 
Nothing under a pound would be accepted, and that 
would be inadequate to represent the value of such a 
monument of skill and patience! The shepherd and 
shepherdess would have to be kept under glass bells, on 
a drawing-room mantel-shelf. 

Judith’s life had hitherto been passed between her 
thoughtful, cultured father and her thoughtless, infantile 
brother. In some particulars she was old for her age, 
but in others she was younger than her years. As the 
companion of her father, she had gained powers of 
reasoning, a calmness in judging, and a shrewdness of 
sense which is unusual in a girl of eighteen. But as 
also the associate of Jamie in his play, she had a childish 
delight in the simplest amusements, and a readiness to 
shake off all serious thought and fretting care in an in- 
stant, and to accommodate herself to the simplicity of 
her brother. 

Thus — a child with a child — Judith and Jamie were on 
the common one windy, showery day, collecting shells, 
laughing, chattering, rejoicing over choice snail-shells, 
as though neither had passed through a wave of trouble, 
as though life lay serene before them. 

Judith had no experience of the world. With her 
natural wit and feminine instinct she had discovered 
that Cruel Coppinger loved her. She had also no hesi- 
tation in deciding that he must be repulsed. Should he 
seek her, she must avoid him. They could not possibly 
unite their lives. She had told him this, and there the 
matter ended. He must swallow his disappointment, 
and think no more about her. No one could have every- 


Iir THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


153 


thing he wanted. Other people had to put up with re- 
jection, why not Coppinger ? It might be salutary to 
him to find that he could not have his way in all things. 
8o she argued, and then she put aside from her all 
thought of the Captain, and gave herself up to consider- 
ation of snail-shell boxes, baskets, and shepherds and 
shepherdesses. 

Jamie was developing a marvellous aptitude for bird- 
stuffing. Mr. Menaida had told Judith repeatedly that 
if the boy would stick to it, he might become as skilful 
as himself. He would be most happy, thankful to be able 
to pass over to him some of the work that accumulated, 
and which he could not execute. “ I am not a profes- 
sional ; I am an amateur. I only stuff birds to amuse my 
leisure moments. Provokingly enough, gentlemen do 
not believe this. They write to me as if I were a trades- 
man, laying their commands upon me, and I resent it. 
I have a small income of my own, and am not forced to 
slave for my bread and ’baccy. Now, if Jamie will work 
with me and help me, I will cheerfully share profits with 
him. I must be director— that is understood.” 

But it was very doubtful whether poor Jamie could be 
taught to apply himself regularly to the work, and that 
under a desultory master, who could not himself remain 
at a task many minutes without becoming exhausted and 
abandoning it. Jamie could be induced to work only by 
being humored. He loved praise. He must be coaxed 
and flattered to undertake any task that gave trouble. 
Fortunately, taxidermy did not require any mental effort, 
and it was the straining of his imperfect mental powers 
that irritated and exhausted the boy. 

With a little cajolery he might be got to do as much 
as did Uncle Zachie, and if Mr. Menaida were as good as 
his word — and there could be little doubt that so kind, 
amiable, and honorable a man would be that — Jamie 
would really earn a good deal of money. Judith also 
hoped to earn more with her shell-work, and together she 
trusted they would be able to support themselves with- 
out further tax on Miss Trevisa. 

And what a childish pleasure they found in scheming 
their future, what they would do with their money, 
where they would take a house, how furnish it ! They 
laughed over their schemes, and their pulses fluttered at 
the delightful pictures they conjured up. And all their 


154 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


rosy paradise was to rise out of the proceeds of stuffed 
birds and snail-shell chimney ornaments. 

“ Ju ! come here, Ju ! ” cried Jamie. 

Then again impatiently, “ Ju ! come here, Ju ! ” 

“What is it, dear?” 

“ Hene is the very house for us. Do come and see.” 

On the down, nestled against a wall that had once en- 
closed a garden, but was now ruinous, stood a cottage. 
It was built of wreck-timber, thatched with heather and 
bracken, and with stones laid on the thatching, which 
was bound with ropes, as protection against the wind. 
A quaint, small house, with little windows under the 
low eaves ; one story high, the window-frames painted 
white ; the glass frosted with salt blown from the sea, so 
that it was impossible to look through the small panes, 
and discover what was within. The door had a gable 
over it, and the centre of the gable was occupied by a 
figure-head of Othello. The Moor of Venice was black 
and well battered by storm, so that the paint was washed 
and bitten off him. There was a strong brick chimney 
in the midst of the roof, but no smoke issued frorn it, 
nor had the house the appearance of being inhabited. 
There were no blinds to the windows, there were no 
crocks, no drying linen about the house ; it had a de- 
serted look, and yet was in good repair. 

“ Oh, Ju ! ” said Jamie, “ we will live here. Will it 
not be fun ? And I shall have a gun and shoot birds.” 

“ Whose house can it be % ” asked Judith. 

“ I don’t know. Ju, the door is open ; shall we go 
in ? ” 

“ No, Jamie, we have no right there.” 

A little gate was in the wall, and Judith looked 
through. There had at one time certainly been a garden 
there, but it had been neglected, and allowed to be over- 
run with weeds. Koses, escallonica, and lavender had 
grown in untrimmed luxuriance. Marigolds rioted over 
the space like a weed. Pinks flourished, loving the 
sandy soil, but here and there the rude blue thistle had 
intruded and asserted its right to the sea-border land 
as its indigenous home. 

Down came the rain, so lashing that Judith was con- 
strained to seek shelter, and, in spite of her protest that 
she had no right to enter Othello Cottage, she passed 
the threshold. 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


155 


No one was within but Jamie, who had not attended 
to her objection ; led by curiosity, and excusing himself 
by the rain, he had opened the door and gone inside. 

The house was unoccupied, and yet was not in a con- 
dition of neglect and decay. If no one lived there, yet 
certainly some one visited it, for it had not that mouldy 
atmosphere that pervades a house long shut up, nor 
were dust and sand deep on floor and table. There was 
furniture, though scanty. The hearth showed traces of 
having had a Are in it at no very distant period. There 
were benches. There were even tinder-box and candle 
on the mantle-shelf. 

Jamie was in high excitement and delight. This was 
the ogre’s cottage to which Jack had climbed up the 
bean-stalk. He was sure to And somewhere the hen 
that laid golden eggs, and the harp that played of itself. 

Judith seated herself on one of the benches and sort- 
ed her shells, leaving Jamie to amuse himself. As the 
house was uninhabited, it did not seem to her that any 
gross impropriety existed in allowing him to run in and 
out and peep round the rooms, and into the corners. 

“ Judith,” he exclaimed, coming to her from an adjoin- 
ing room, “ there is a bed in here, and there are crooks 
in the wall ! ” 

“ What are the crooks for, dear ? ” 

“ For climbing, I think.” 

Then he ran back, and she saw no more of him for 
a while, but heard him scrambling. 

She rose and went to the door into the adjoining 
apartment to see that he was after no mischief. She 
found that this apartment was intended for sleeping in. 
There was a bedstead with a mattress on it, but no 
clothes. Jamie had found some crooks in the wall, and 
was scrambling up these, with hands and feet, toward 
the ceiling, where she perceived an opening, apparently 
into the attic. 

“ Oh, Jamie ! what are you doing there ?” 

“ Ju, I want to see whether there is anything between 
the roof and the ceiling. There may be the harp there, 
or the hen that lays golden eggs.” 

“The shower is nearly over ; I shall not wait for you.” 

She seated herself on the bed and watched him. He 
thrust open a sliding board, and crawled through into 
the attic. He would soon tire of exploring among the 


156 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


rafters, and would return dirt}^, and have to be cleared 
of cobwebs and dust. But it amused the boy. He was 
ever restless, and she would find it difficult to keep him 
occupied sitting by her below till the rain ceased, so she 
allowed him to scramble and search as he pleased. Very 
tew minutes had passed before Judith heard a short 
cough in the main room, and she at once rose and 
stepped back into it to apologize for her intrusion. _ To 
her great surprise she found her aunt there, at the little 
window, measuring it. 

“ A couple of yards will do — double width,” said Miss 
Trevisa. 

“ Auntie ! ” exclaimed Judith. “ Who ever would have 
thought of seeing you here ? ” 

Miss Trevisa turned sharply round, and her lips 
tightened. 

“And who would have thought of seeing you here,” 
ehe answered, curtly. 

“ Auntie, the rain came on ; I ran in here so as not to 
be wet through. To whom does this house belong ? ” 

“ To the master — to whom else ? Captain Coppinger.” 
“Are you measuring the window for blinds for him ?” 
“ I am measuring for blinds, but not for him.” 

“ But — who lives here ? ” 

“ No one as yet.” 

“ Is any one coming to live here ? ” 

“Yes — I am.” 

“ Oh, auntie ! and are we to come here with you ? ” 
Miss Trevisa snorted, and stiffened her back. 

“ Are you out of your senses, like Jamie, to ask such 
a question ? What is the accommodation here ? Two 
little bedrooms, one large kitchen, and a lean-to for scul- 
lery — that is all — a fine roomy mansion for three people 
indeed ! ” 

“ But, auntie, are you leaving the Glaze ? ” 

“ Yes, I am. Have you any objection to that ? ” 

“ No, aunt, only I am surprised. And Captain Cruel 
lets you have this dear little cottage ?” 

“ As to its being dear, I don’t know, I am to have it ; 
and that is how you have found it open to poke and pry 
into. I came up to look round and about me, and then 
found I had not brought my measuring tape with me, 
so I returned home for that, and you found the door 
open and thrust yourself in.” 


TW THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


157 


“ I am very sorry if I have given you annoyance.” 

“ Oh, it’s no annoyance to me. The place is not mine 
yet.” 

“ But when do you come here, Aunt Dunes ? ” 

“ When ? ” Miss Trevisa looked at her niece with a 
peculiar expression in her hard face that Judith noticed, 
but could not interpret. “ That,” said Miss Trevisa, “ I 
do not know yet.” 

“ I suppose you will do up that dear little garden,” 
said Judith. 

Miss Trevisa did not vouchsafe an answer ; she 
grunted, and resumed her measuring. 

“ Has this cottage been vacant for long, auntie ? ” 
'Yes.” 

But, auntie, some one comes here. It is not quite 
deserted.” 

Miss Trevisa said to herself, “ Four times two and one 
breadth torn in half to allow for folds will do it. Four 
times two is eight, and one breadth more is ten.” 

Just then Jamie appeared, shyly peeping through the 
door. He had heard his aunt’s voice, and was afraid to 
show himself. Her eye, however, observed him, and in 
a peremptory tone she ordered him to come forward. 

But Jamie would not obey her willingly, and he 
deemed it best for him to make a dash through the kit- 
chen to the open front door. 

“That boy! ” growled Miss Trevisa, “I’ll be bound he 
has been at mischief.” 

“ Auntie, I think the rain has ceased, I will say good- 
by.” 

Then Judith left the cottage. 

“ Ju,” said Jamie, when he was with his sister beyond 
earshot of the aunt, “ such fun — I have something to 
tell you.” 

“ What is it, J amie % ” 

“ I won’t tell you till we get home.” 

“ Oh, Jamie, not till we get back to Polzeath ? ” 

“Well, not till we get half-way home — to the white 
gate. Then I will tell you.” 


CHAPTEK XXn. 

JAMIE’S RIDE. 

“Now, Jamie ! the white gate.” 

The white gate ! — what about that ? ” He had for 
j^otten his promise. 

“ You have a secret to tell me.” 

Then the boy began to laugh and to tap his pockets. 

“ What do you think, Ju ! look what I have found. Do 
you know what is in the loft of the cottage we were in ! 
There are piles of tobacco, all up hidden away in the 
dark under the rafters. I have got my pockets stuffed as 
full as they will hold. It is for Uncle Zachie. Won’t 
he be pleased ? ” 

“ Oh, Jamie ! you should not have done that.” 

“ Why not ? Don’t scold, Ju ! ” 

“It is stealing.” 

“ No, it is not. No one lives there.” 

“Nevertheless it belongs to some one, by whatever 
means it was got, and for whatever purpose stowed 
away there. You had no right to touch it.” 

“ Then why do you take snail-shells ? ” 

“ They belong to no one, no one values them. It is 
other with this tobacco. Give it up. Take it back 
again.” 

“What— to Aunt DunesT I daren’t, she’s so cross.” 

“Well, give it to me, and I will take it to her. She 
is now at the cottage, and the tobacco can be replaced.” 

“ Oh, Ju, I should like to see her scramble up the 
wall ! ” 

“ I do not think she will do that ; but she will contrive 
somehow to have the tobacco restored. It is not yours, 
and I believe it belongs to Captain Cruel. If it be not 
given back now he may hear of it and be very angry.” 

“ He would beat me,” said the boy, hastily emptying 
his pockets. “ I’d rather have Aunt Dunes’ jaw than 
Captain Cruel’s stick.” He gave the tobacco to his sis. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


169 


ter, but he was not in a good humor. He did not see 
the necessity for restoring it. But Jamie never dis- 
obeyed his sister, when they were alone, and she was de- 
termined with him. Before others he tried to display 
his independence, by feeble defiances never long main- 
tained, and ending in a reconciliation with tears and 
kisses, and promises of submission without demur for 
the future. With all, even the most docile children, 
there occur epochs when they try their wings, strut and 
ruffle their plumes, and crow very loud — epochs of petu- 
lance or boisterous outbreak of self-assertion in the face 
of their guides and teachers. If the latter be firm, the 
trouble passes away to be renewed at a future period till 
manhood or womanhood is reached, and then guide and 
teacher who is wise falls back, lays down control, and 
lets the pupils have their own way. But if at the first 
attempts at mastery, those in authority, through indiffer- 
ence or feebleness or folly, give way, then the fate of 
the children is sealed, they are spoiled for ever. 

J amie had his rebellious fits, and they were distressing 
to Judith, but she never allowed herself to be conquered. 
She evaded provoking them whenever possible ; and as 
much as possible led him by his affection. He had a 
very tender heart, was devotedly attached to his sister, 
and appeals to his better nature were usually successful, 
not always immediately, but in the long run. 

Her association with Jamie had been of benefit to 
Judith ; it had strengthened her character. She had 
been forced from earliest childhood to be strong where 
he was weak, to rule because he was incapable of ruling 
himself. This had nurtured in her a decision of mind, a 
coolness of judgment, and an inflexibility of purpose un- 
usual in a girl of her years. 

Judith walked to Othello Cottage, carrying the tobacco 
in her skirt, held up by both hands ; and Jamie saun- 
tered back to Polzeath, carrying his sister’s basket of 
shells, stopping at intervals to add to the collection, 
then ensconcing himself in a nook of the hedge to watch 
a finch, a goldhammer, or a blackbird, then stopped to 
observe and follow a beetle of gorgeous metallic hues 
that was running across the path. 

Presently he emerged into the highway, the parish 
road ; there was no main road in those parts maintained 
by toll-gates, and then observed a gig approach in which 


160 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


sat two men, one long* and narrow-faced, the other tall, 
but stout and round-faced. He recognized the former 
at once as Mr. Scantlebray, the appraiser. Mr. Scantle- 
bray, who was driving-, nudged his companion, and with 
the butt-end of the whip pointed to the boy. 

“ Heigh ! hi-up ! Gafter ! ” called Mr. Scantlebray, flap- 
ping his arms against his sides, much as does a cock 
with his wings. “ Come along ; I have something of 
urgent importance to say to you — something so good 
that it will make you squeak ; something so delicious 
that it will make your mouth water.” 

This was addressed to Jamie, as the white mare 
leisurely trotted up to where the boy stood. Then 
Scantlebray drew up, with his elbows at right angles 
to his trunk. 

“ Here’s my brother thirsting, ravening to make your 
acquaintance — and, by George ! you are in luck’s way, 
young hopeful, to make his. Obadiah ! this here infant 
is an orphing. Orphing ! this is Obadiah Scantlebray, 
whom I call Scanty because he is fat. Jump up, will y’, 
into the gig.” 

Jamie looked vacantly about him. He had an idea 
that he ought to wait for Judith or go directly home. 
But she had not forbidden him to have a ride, and a ride 
was what he dearly loved. 

“ Are you coming ? ” asked Scantlebray ; “ or do you 
need a more ceremonious introduction to Mr. Obadiah, 
eh ? ” 

“I’ve got a basket of shells,” said Jamie. “They be- 
long to Ju.” 

“Well, put Ju’s basket in — the shells w^on’t hurt — and 
then in with you. There’s a nice little portmantle in 
front, on which you can sit and look us in the face, and 
if you don’t tumble off with laughing, it will be because 
I strap you in. My brother is the very comicalest fellow 
in Cornwall. It’s a wonder I haven’t died of laughter. 
I should have, but our paths diverged ; he took uj) the 
medical line, and I the valuation and ail that, so my life 
was saved. Are you comfortable there ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Jamie, seated himself where advised. 

’‘Now for the strap round ye,” said Scantlebray. 
“ Don’t be alarmed ; it’s to hold you together, lest you 
split your sides with merriment, and to hold you in, 
lest you tumble overboard convulsed with laughter. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


161 


That brother of mine is the killingest man in Great 
Britain. Look at his face. Bless me ! in church I 
should explode when I saw him, but that I am engrossed 
in my devotion«. On with you, J uno ! ” 

That to the gray mare, and a whip applied to make 
the gray mare trot along, which she did, with her head 
down lost in thought, or as if smelling the road, to make 
sure that she was on the right track. 

“ ’Tisn’t what he says,” remarked Mr. Scantlebray, see- 
ing a questioning expression on Jamie’s innocent face, 
“ it’s the looks of him. And when he speaks — well, it’s 
the way he says it more than what he says. I was at a 
Charity Trust dinner, and Obadiah said to the waiter, 
‘ Cutlets, please ! ’ The fellow dropped the dish, and I 
stuffed my napkin into my mouth, ran out, and went into 
a fit. Now, Scanty, show the young gentleman how to 
make a rablDit.” 

Then Mr. Scantlebray tickled up the mare with the 
lash of his whip, cast some objurgations at a horse-fly 
that was hovering and then darting at Juno. 

Mr. Obadiah drew forth a white but very crumpled 
kerchief from his pocket, and proceeded to fold it on his 
lap. 

“Just look at him,” said the agent, “doing it in spite 
of the motion of the gig. It’s wonderful. But his face 
is the butchery. I can’t look at it for fear of letting go 
the reins.” 

The roads were unfrequented ; not a person was pass- 
ing as the party jogged along. Mr. Scantlebray hissed 
to the mare between his front teeth, which were wide 
apart; then, turning his eye sideways, observed what 
his brother was about. 

“ That’s his carcase,” said he, in reference to the im- 
mature rabbit. 

Then a man was sighted coming along the road, hum- 
ming a tune. It was Mr. Menaida. 

“ How are you ? Compliments to the young lady orph- 
ing, and say we’re jolly — all three,” shouted Scantlebray, 
urging his mare to a faster pace, and keeping her up to 
it till they had turned a corner, and Menaida was no 
more in sight. 

“ Just look at his face, as he’s a folding of that there 
pocky handkercher,” said the appraiser. “ It’s exploding 
work.” 


162 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Jamie looked into the stolid features of Mr. Obadiah, 
and laughed — laughed heartily, laughed till the tears 
ran down his cheeks. Not that he saw aught humorous 
there, but that he was told it w'as there, he aught to see 
it, and would be a fool if he were not convulsed by it. 

Precisely the same thing happens with us. We look 
at and go into raptures over a picture, because it is by 
a Royal Academician who has been knighted on account 
of his brilliant successes. We are charmed at a cantata, 
stifling our yawns, because we are told by the art critics 
who are paid to puff it, that we are fools, and have no 
ears if we do not feel charmed by it. We rush to read a 
new novel, and find it vastly clever, because an eminent 
statesman has said on a postcard it has pleased him. 

We laugh when told to laugh, condemn when told to 
condemn, and would stand on our heads if informed that 
it was bad for us to walk on our feet. 

“ There ! ” said Mr. Scantlebray, the valuer. “ Them’s 
ears.” 

“ Crrrh ! ” went Mr. Obadiah, and the handkerchief, 
converted into a white bunny, shot from his hand up his 
sleeve. 

“ I can’t drive, ’pon my honor ; I’m too ill. You have 
done me for to-day,” said Scantlebray the elder, the 
valuer. “ Now, young hopeful, what say you “? Will you 
make a rabbit, also % I’ll give you a shilling if you will.” 

Thereupon Jamie took the kerchief and spread it out, 
and began to fold it. Whenever he went wrong Mr. 
Obadiah made signs, either by elevation of his brows 
and a little shake of his head, or by pointing, and his 
elder brother caught him at it and protested. Obadiah 
was the drollest fellow, he was incorrigible, as full of 
mischief as an egg is full of meat. There was no trust- 
ing him for a minute when the eye was off him. 

“ Come, Scanty ! I’ll put you on your honor. Look 
the other way.” But a moment after — “ Ah, for shame ! 
there you are at it again. Young hopeful, you see what 
a vicious brother I have ; perfectly untrustworthy, but 
such a comical dog. Full of tricks up to the ears. You 
should see him make shadows on the wall. He can reiD- 
resent a pig eating out of a trough. You see the ears 
flap, the jaws move, the eye twinkle in appreciation of 
the barley-meal. It is to the life, and all done by the tw^o 
hands — by one, I may say, for the other serves as trough. 


IN’ THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


163 


What ! Done the rabbit ? First rate ! Splendid ! Here 
is the shilling*. But, honor bright, you don’t deserve it ; 
that naug-hty Scanty helped you.” 

“ Please,” said Jamie, timidly, “ may I get out now and 
g“o hime ? ” 

“ Go home ! Wliat for ? ” 

‘‘ I want to show Ju my shilling*.” 

‘‘ By ginger ! that is too rich. Not a bit of it. Do you 
know Mistress Polgrean’s sweetie shop ? ” 

‘‘ But that’s at Wadebridge.” 

“ At Wadebridge ; and why not ? You will spend your 
shilling there. But look at my brother. It is distress- 
ing ; his eyes are alight at the thoughts of the tartlets, 
and the sticks of peppermint sugar, and the almond 
rock. Are you partial to almond rock, orphin ? ” 

J amie’s mind was at once engaged. 

“ Which is it to be ? Gingerbreads or tartlets, almond 
rock or barley-sugar ? ” 

“ I think I’ll have the peppermint,” said Jamie. 

“ Then peppermint it shall be. And you will give me 
a little bit, and Scanty a bit, and take a little bit home 
to Ju, eh ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“He’ll take a little bit home to Ju, Obadiah, old 
man.” 

The funny brother nodded. 

“ And the basket of shells ? ” asked the elder. 

“ Yes, she is making little boxes with them to sell,” 
said J amie. 

“ I suppose I may have the privilege of buying some,” 
said Mr. Scantlebray, senior. “ Oh, look at that brother 
of mine ! How he is screwing his nose about ! I say, 
old man, are you ill ? Upon my life, I believe he is 
laughing.” 

Presently J amie got restless. 

“ Please, Mr. Scantlebray, may I get out ? Ju will be 
frightened at my being away so long.” 

“ Poor Ju ! ” said Scantlebray, the elder. “ But no — 
don’t you worry your mind about that. We passed Uncle 
Zachie, and he will tell her where you are, in good hands, 
or rather, nipped between most reliable knees — my 
brother’s and mine. Sit still. I can’t stop Juno ; we’re 
going down-hill now, and if I stopped Juno she wwld 
fall. You must wait— wait till we get to Mrs. Pol- 


164 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


grean’s.” Then, after chuckling to himself, Scantlebray, 
senior, said : “ Obadiah, old man, I wonder what Missie 
Ju is thinking ? I wonder what she will say, eh ? ” Again 
he chuckled. “ No place in your establishment for that 
party, eh?” 

The outskirts of Wadebridge were reached. 

“ Now may I get out ? ” said Jamie. 

“ Bless my heart ! Not yet. Wait for Mrs. Polgrean’s.” 

But presently Mrs. Polgrean’s shop -window was 
passed. 

“ Oh, stop ! stop ! ” cried Jamie. “We have gone by 
the sweetie shop.” 

“Of course we have,” answered Scantlebray, senior. 
“ I daren’t trust that brother of mine in there ; he has 
such a terrible sweet tooth. Besides, I want you to see 
the pig eating out of the trough. It will kill you. If it 
don’t I’ll give you another shilling.” 

Presently he drew up at the door of a stiff, square-built 
house, with a rambling wing thrown out on one side. It 
was stuccoed and painted drab — drab walls, drab win- 
dows, and drab door. 

“ Now, then, young man,” said Scantlebray, cheerily, 
“ I’ll unbuckle the strap and let you out. You come in 
with me. This is my brother’s mansion, roomy, pleas- 
ant, and comprehensive. You shall have a dish of tea.” 

“ And then I may go home ? ” 

“And then — we shall see; shan’t we, Obadiah, old 
man ? ” 

They entered the hall, and the door was shut and fast- 
ened behind them ; then into a somewhat dreary room, 
with red flock paper on the walls, no pictures, leather- 
covered, old, mahogany chairs, and a book or two on the 
table — one of these a Bible. 

Jamie looked wonderingly about him, a little disposed 
to cry. He was a long way from Polzeath, and Judith 
would be waiting for him and anxious, and the place 
into which he was ushered was not cheery, not inviting. 

“ Now, then,” said ,Mr. Scantlebray, “ young hopeful, 
give me my shilling.” 

“ Please, I’m going to buy some peppermint and burnt 
almonds for Ju and me as I go back.” 

“Oh, indeed! But .suppose you do not have the 
chance ? ” 

Jamie looked vacantly in his face, then into that of the 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


165 


stolid brother, who ’was not preparing- to show him the 
pig- feeding out of a trough, nor was he calling for tea. 

“ Come,” said Scantlebray, the elder ; “ suppose I take 
charge of that shilling till you have the chance of spend- 
ing it, young man.” 

“ Please, I’ll spend it now.” 

“ Not a bit. You won’t have the chance. Do you know 
Ivhere you are ? ” 

Jamie looked round in distress. He was becoming 
frightened at the altered tone of the valuer. 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Scantlebray, “you’re now an hon- 
orable inmate of my brother’s Establishment for Idiots, 
which you don’t leave till cured of imbecility. That shil- 
ling, if you please % ” 


CHAPTEK XXm 


ALL IS FOE THE BEST IN THE BEST OF WOELDS. 

Judith returned to the cottag*e of Mr. Menaida, trou- 
bled in mind, for Aunt Dunes had been g-reatly incensed 
at the taking of the tobacco by J amie, and not corre- 
spondingly gratified by the return of it so promptly by 
Judith. Miss Trevisa was a woman who magnified and 
resented any wrong done, but minimized and passed 
over as unworthy of notice whatever was generous, and 
every attempt made to repay an evil. Such attempts 
not only met with no favor from her, but were perverted 
in her crabbed mind into fresh affronts or injuries. That 
the theft of Jamie would not have been discovered had 
not Judith spoken of it and brought back what had been 
taken, was made of no account by Aunt Dionysia ; she 
attacked Judith with sharp reproach for allowing the 
boy to be mischievous, for indulging him and suffering 
him to run into danger through his inquisitiveness and 
thoughtlessness, “ For,” said Aunt Dionysia, “ had the 
master or any of his men found out what Jamie had 
done there is no telling how he might have been served.” 
Then she had muttered : “If you will not take precau- 
tions, other folk must, and the boy must be put where he 
can be properly looked after and kept from interfering 
with the a&irs of others.” 

On reaching Mr. Menaida’s cottage, Judith called her 
brother, but as she did not receive an answer, she went 
in quest of him, and was met by the servant. Jump. “ If 
you please, miss,” said Jump, “ there’s been two gen’le- 
men here, as said they was come from Mrs. Trevisa, and 
said they was to pack and take off Master Jamie’s clothes. 
And please, miss, I didn’t know what to do — they was 
gen’lemen, and the master — he was out, and you w^as out, 
miss — and Master Jamie, he wasn’t to home n’other.” 

“ Taken Jamie’s clothes ! ” repeated Judith, in amaze- 
ment. 

“Yes, miss, they brought a portmantle a- purpose; 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 167 

and they’d a g-ig* at the door ; and they spoke uncommon 
pleasant, leastwise one o’ them did.” 

“ And where is Jamie ? Has he not come home ? ” 

“ No, miss.” 

At that moment Mr. Menaida came in. 

“ What is it, Judith ? Jamie 1 Where Jamie is ? — 
why, having a ride, seated between the two Scantle- 
brays, in their gig. That is where he is.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Menaida, but they have taken his clothes ! ” 

‘‘ Whose clothes ? ” 

“Jamie’s.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ The two gentlemen came to this house when you and 
I were out, and told Jump that they were empowered by 
my aunt to pack up and carry off all Jamie’s clothing, 
which they put into a portmanteau they had brought 
with them.” 

“ And then picked up Jamie. He was sitting on the 
portmanteau,” said Uncle Zachie ; then his face became 
grave. “ They said that they acted under authority from 
Mrs. Trevisa?” 

“ So Jump says.” 

“ It can surely not be that he has been moved to the 
asylum.” 

“ Asylum, Mr. Menaida ? ” 

“The idiot asylum.” 

Judith uttered a cry, and staggered back against the 
wall. 

“ Jamie ! my brother Jamie ! ” 

“ Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray has such a place at Wade- 
bridge.” 

“ But Jamie is not an idiot.” 

“ Your aunt authorized them — ” mused Uncle Zachie. 
“ Humph ! you should see her about it. That is the first 
step, and ascertain whether she has done it, or whether 
they are acting with a high hand for themselves. I’ll 
look at my law-books — if the latter it would be action 
able.” 

Judith did not hesitate for a moment. She hastened 
to Pentyre. That her aunt had left Othello Cottage she 
was pretty sure, as she was preparing to leave it when 
Judith returned with the tobacco. Accordingly she 
took the road to Pentyre at once. Tears of shame and 
pain welled up in her eyes at the thought of her darling 


168 


THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


brother being beguiled away to be locked up among the 
imbecile in a j)rivate establishment for the insane. Then 
her heart was contracted with anger and resentment at 
the scurvy trick played on her and him. She did not 
know that the Scantlebrays had been favored by pure 
accident. She conceived that men base enough to carry 
off her brother would watch and wait for the opportunity 
when to do it unobserved and unopposed. She hardly 
walked. She ran till her breath failed her, and the rapid 
throbbing of her heart would no longer allow her to 
run. Her dread of approaching the Glaze after the 
declaration made by Captain Cruel was overwhelmed in 
her immediate desire to know something about Jamie, 
in her anguish of fear for him. On Coppinger she did 
not cast a thought — her mind was so fully engrossed in 
her brother. 

She saw nothing of the Captain. She entered the 
house, and proceeded at once to her aunt’s apartment. 
She found Miss Trevisa there, seated near the window, 
engaged on some chintz that she thought would do for 
the window at Othello Cottage, when she took possession 
of it. She had measured the piece, found that it was 
suitable, and was turning down a hem and tacking it. 
It was a pretty chintz, covered with springs of nonde- 
script pink and blue flowers. 

Judith burst in on her, breathless, her brow covered 
with dew, her bosom heaving, her face white with dis- 
tress, and tears standing on her eyelashes. She threw 
herself on her knees before Miss Trevisa, half crying out 
and half sobbing : 

“ Oh, aunt ! they have taken him ! ” 

“ Who have taken whom ? ” asked the elderly lady, 
coldly. 

She raised her eyes and cast a look full of malevolence 
at Judith. She never had, did not, never would feel 
toward that girl as a niece. She hated her for her 
mother’s^ sake, and now she felt an unreasonable bitter- 
ness against her, because she had fascinated Coppinger 
— perhaps, also, because in a dim fashion she was aware 
that she herself was acting toward the child in an un- 
worthy, unmerciful manner, and we all hate those whom 
we wrong. 

“Auntie! tell me it is not so. Mr. Scantlebray and 
his brother have carried my darling Jamie away.” 


IW THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


169 


“ Well, and what of that ? ” 

“ But — will they let me have him back ? ” 

Miss Trevisa pulled at the chintz. “I will trouble 
you not to crumple this,” she said. 

Aunt ! dear aunt ! you did not tell Mr. Scantlebray 
to take Jamie away from me ? ” 

The old lady did not answer, she proceeded to release 
the material at which she was eng'ag’ed from under the 
knees of Judith. The girl, in her vehemence, put her 
hands to her aunt’s arms, between the elbows and shoul- 
ders, and held and pressed them back, and with implor- 
ing eyes looked into her hard face. 

“ Oh, auntie ! you never sent Jamie to an asylum ? ” 

“I must beg you to let go my arms,” said Miss Tre- 
visa. “This conduct strikes me as most indecorous 
toward one of my age and relationship.” 

She avoided Judith’s eye, her brow wrinkled, and her 
lips contracted. The gall in her heart rose and over- 
flowed. 

“ I am not ashamed of what I have done.” 

“ Auntie ! ” with a cry of pain. Then Judith let go the 
old lady’s arms, and clasped her hands over her eyes. 

“ Eeally,” said Miss Trevisa, with asperity, “ you are 
a most exasperating person. I shall do with the boy 
what I see fit. You know very well that he is a thief.” 

“ He never took anything before to-day — never — 
and you had settled this before you knew about the to- 
bacco ! ” burst from Judith, in anger and with floods of 
tears. 

“ I knew that he has always been troublesome and mis- 
chievous, and he must be placed where he can be jprop- 
erly managed by those accustomed to such cases.” 

“ There is nothing the matter with Jamie.” 

“ You have humored and spoiled him. If he is 
such a plague to all who know him, it is because he 
has been treated injudiciously. He is now with men 
who are experienced, and able to deal with the like of 
Jamie.” 

“ Aunt, he must not be there, I promised my papa to 
be ever with him, and to look after him.” 

“ Then it is a pity your father did not set this down in 
writing. Please to remember that I, and not you, am 
constituted his guardian, by the terms of the will.” 

“ Oh, aunt I aunt ! let him come back to me ! ” 


170 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Miss ^revisa shook her head. 

“ Then let me go to him ! ” 

“ Hoity-toity ! here’s airs and nonsense. Keally, Ju- 
dith, you are almost imbecile enough to qualify for the 
asylum. But I cannot afford the cost of you both. Ja- 
mie’s cost in that establishment will be £70 in the year, 
and how much do you suppose that you possess ? ” 

Judith remained kneeling upright, with her hands 
clasped, looking earnestly through her tears at her 
aunt. 

“ You have in all, between you, but £45 or £50. When 
the dilapidations are paid, and the expenses of the fu- 
neral, and the will-proving, and all that, I do not suppose 
you will be found to have a thousand pounds between 
you, and that put out to interest will not bring you 
more than I have said; so I shall have to make up 
the deficiency. That is not pleasing to me, you may 
well suppose. But I had rather pay £25 out of my 

C oor income, than have the name of the family disgraced 
y Jamie.” 

“ J amie will never, never disgrace the name. He is too 
good. And — it is wicked, it is cruel to put him where 
you have. He is not an idiot.” 

“ I am perhaps a better judge than you ; so also is 
Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray, who has devoted his life to the 
care and study of the imbecile. Your brother has weak 
intellects.” 

“ He is not clever, that is all. With application •” 

“He cannot apply his mind. He has" no mind that 
can be got to be applied.” 

“Aunt, he’s no idiot. He must not be kept in that 
place.” 

“ You had best go back to Polzeath. I have decided 
on what I considered right. I have done my duty.” 

“It cannot be just. I will see what Mr. Menaida 
says. He must be released ; if you will not let him out, 
I will.” 

Miss Trevisa looked up at her quickly between her 
half-closed lids ; a bitter, cruel smile quivered about her 
lips. “If any one can deliver him, it will be you.” 

Judith did not understand her meaning, and Aunt 
Dionysia did not care at that time to further enlighten 
her thereon. Finding her aunt indexible, the unhappy 
girl left Pentyre Glaze and hurried back to Polzeath, 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 171 

where she implored Mr. Menaida to accompany her to 
Wadebridge. Go there she would — she must — that 
same evening. If he would not attend her, she would 
go alone. She could not rest, she could not remain in 
the house, till she had been to the place where Jamie 
was, and seen whether she could not release him thence 
by her entreaties, her urgency. 

Mr. Menaida shook his head. But he was a kind- 
hearted old man, and was distressed at the misery of 
the girl, and would not hear of her making the expedi- 
tion alone, as she could not well return before dark. 
So he assumed his rough and shabby beaver hat, put 
on his best cravat, and sallied forth with Judith upon 
her journey to Wadebridge, one that he assured her 
must be fruitless, and had better be postponed till the 
morrow. 

“ I cannot ! I cannot ! ” she cried. “ I cannot sleep, 
thinking of my darling brother in that dreadful place, 
with such people about him, he crying, frightened, driven 
mad by the strangeness of it all, and being away from 
me. I must go. If I cannot save him and bring him 
back with me, I can see him and console him, and bid 
him wait in patience and hope.” 

Mr. Menaida with a soft heart and a weak will, was 
hung about with scraps of old-world polish, scraps only. 
In him nothing was complete — here and there a bare 
place of rustic uncouthness, there patches of velvet 
courtesy of the Queen Anne age ; so, also, was _ he 
made up of fine culture, of classic learning alternating 
with boorish ignorance — here high principle, there none 
at all — a picture worked to a miniature in points, and 
in others rudely roughed in and neglected. Now he 
was moved as he had not been moved for years by the 
manifest unhappiness of the girl, and he was willing to 
do his utmost to assist her, but that utmost consisted 
in little more than accompanying her to Wadebridge and 
ringing at the house-bell of Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray’s 
establishment. When it came to the interview that 
ensued with the proprietor of the establishment and 
jailer of Jamie, he failed altogether. Judith and 
Uncle Zachie were shown into the dreary parlor 
without ornaments, and presently to them entered Mr. 
Obadiah. 

“ Oh, sir, is he here ?— have you got Jamie her© ? ” 


172 


IN THE HOAR OF THE 8EA, 


Mr. Scantlebray nodded his head, then went to the 
door and knocked with his fists against the wall. A 
servant maid appeared. ‘‘ Send missus,” said he, and 
returned to the parlor. 

Again Judith entreated to be told if her brother were 
there with all the vehemence and fervor of her tattered 
heart. 

Mr. Obadiah listened with stolid face and vacant eyes 
that turned from her to Mr. Menaida, and then back to 
her again. Presently an idea occurred to him and his 
face brightened. He went to a sideboard, opened a long 
drawer, brought out a large book, thrust it before J udith, 
and said, “ Pictures.” Then, as she took no notice of the 
book, he opened it. 

“ Oh, please sir,” pleaded Judith, “ I don’t want 
that. I want to know about Jamie. I want to see 
him.” 

Then in at the door came a lady in black silk, with 
small curls about her brow. She was stout, but not 
florid. 

“What!” said she, “my dear, are you the young 
lady whose brother is here? Don’t you fret yourself. 
He is as comfortable as a chick in a feathered nest. 
Don’t you worry your little self about him now. Now 
your good days have begun. He will not be a trouble 
and anxiety to you any more. He is well cared for. I 
dare be sworn he has given you many an hour of 
anxiety. Now, O be joyful! that is over, and you can 
dance and play with a light heart. I have lifted the 
load off you, I and Mr. Scantlebray. Here he will be 
very comfortable and perfectly happy. I spare no pains 
to make my pets snug, and Scantlebray is inexhaust- 
ible in his ability to amuse them. He has a way with 
these innocents that is quite marvellous. Wait a while 
— give him and me a trial, and see what the result is. 
You may believe me as one of long and tried experience. 
It never does for amateurs — for relations — to undertake 
these cases ; they don’t know when to be firm, or when 
to yield. We do— it is our profession. We have studied 
the half-witted.” 

“ But my brother is not half-witted.” 

“ So you say, and so it becomes you to say. Never 
admit that there is imbecility or insanity in the family. 
You are quite right, my dear ; you look forward to be- 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


173 


ing* married some day, and you know very well it might 
stand in the way of an engagement, were it supposed 
that you had idiocy in the family blood. It is quite 
right. I understand all that sort of thing. We call it 
nervous debility, and insanity we term nervous excite- 
ment. Scantlebray, my poppet, isn’t it so! ” 

Mr. Obadiah nodded. 

“ You leave all care to us ; thrust it upon our 
shoulders. They will bear it; and never doubt that 
your brother will be cared for in body and in soul. In 
body — always something nice and light for supper, 
tapioca, rice-pudding, batter; to-night, rolly-poly. After 
that, prayers. We don’t feed high, but we feed suitably. 
If you like to pay a little extra, we will feed higher. 
Now, my dear, you take all as for the best, and rely on it 
everything is right.” 

“But Jamie ought not to be locked up.” 

“ My dear, he is at school under the wisest and most 
experienced of teachers. You have mismanaged him. 
Now he will be treated professionally ; and Mr. Scantle- 
bray superintends not the studies only, but the amuse- 
naents of the pupils. He has such a fund of humor in 
him.” Obadiah at once produced his pocket-handkerchief 
and began to fold it. “ No, dear, no ducky, no rabbit 
now I You fond thing, you I always thinking of giving 
entertainment to some one. No, nor the parson preach- 
ing either.” He was rolling his hands together and 
thrusting up his thumb as the representative of a sacred 
orator in his pulpit. “ No, ducky darling 1 another time. 
My husband is quite a godsend to the nervously pros- 
trate. He can amuse them by the hour; he never 
wearies of it ; he is never so happy as when he is enter- 
taining them. You cannot doubt that your brother will 
be content in the house of such a man. Take my word 
for it ; there is nothing like believing that all is for the 
best as it is. Our pupils will soon be going to bed. 
Rolly-poly and prayers, and then to bed — that is the 
order.” 

“ Oh, let me see Jamie now.” 

“ No, my dear. It would be injudicious. He is set- 
tling in ; he is becoming reconciled, and it would disturb 
him, and undo what has already been done. Don’t you 
say so, poppet ? ” 

The poppet nodded his head. 


174 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“You see, this great authority agrees with me. Now, 
this evening Jamie and the others shall have an extra 
treat. They shall have the pig eating out of the trough. 
There — what more can you desire ? As soon as lights 
are brought in, then rolly-poly, prayers, and the pig and 
the trough. Another time you shall see him. Not to- 
night. It is inadvisable. Take my word for it, your 
brother is as happy as a boy can be. He has found 
plenty of companions of the same condition as himself.” 

“ But he is not an idiot.” 

“ My dear, we know all about that ; very nice and 
sweet for you to say so — isn’t it duckie ? ” 

The duckie agreed it was so. 

“ There is the bell. My dear, another time. You will 
promise to come and see me again ? I have had such a 
delightful talk with you. Good-night, good-night. ‘All 
is for the best in the best of worlds.’ Put that maxim 
under your head and sleep upon it.” 


CHAPTEK XXIV. 

A NIGHT EXCUESION. 

Some people are ever satisfied with what is certain to 
give themselves least trouble, especially if that some- 
thing concerns other persons. 

Mr. Menaida was won over by the volubility of Mrs. 
Scantlebray and the placidity of Mr. Scantlebray to the 
conviction that Jamie was in the very best place he 
could possibly be in. A lady who called Judith “ my 
dear” and her husband “duckie” must have a kindly 
heart, and a gentleman like Mr. Obadiah, so full of re- 
sources, could not fail to divert and gratify the minds of 
those under his charge, and banish care and sorrow. And 
as Mr. Menaida perceived that it would be a difiicult 
matter to liberate Jamie from the establishment where 
he was, and as it was an easy matter to conclude that the 
establishment was admirably adapted to Jamie, he was 
content that Aunt Dionysia had chosen the wisest course 
in putting him there, and that it would be to the general 
advantage to cherish this opinion. For, in the first 
place, it would pacify Judith, and then, by pacifying her, 
would give himself none of that inconvenience, that run- 
ning to and fro between Polzeath and Wadebridge, that 
consultation of law-books, that correspondence, that get- 
ting of toes and fingers into hot water, likely to result 
from the impatience, the unflagging eagerness of Judith 
to liberate her brother. 

Accordingly Uncle Zachie used his best endeavors to 
assure Judith that Jamie certainly was happy, had never 
been so happy in his life before, and that, under the 
treatment of so kind and experienced a man as Mr. Oba- 
diah Scantlebray, there was reason to believe that in a 
short time Jamie would issue from under his tuition a 
light so brilliant as to outshine the beacon on Trevose 
Head. 

Judith was unconvinced. Love is jealous and timo- 


176 


IN TEE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


rous. She feared lest all should not be as was repre- 
sented. There was an indefinable something in Mrs. 
Scantlebray that roused her suspicion. She could not 
endure that others should step into the place of respon 
sibility toward Jamie she had occupied so long, and 
which she had so solemnly assured her father she would 
never abandon. Supposing that Scantlebray and his 
wife were amiable and considerate persons, might they 
not so influence the fickle Jamie as to displace her from 
his affections and insinuate themselves in her room ? 

But it was not this mainly that troubled her. She was 
tormented with the thought of the lonely, nervous child 
in the strange house, among strange people, in desola- 
tion of heart and deadly fear. 

Whenever he had become excited during the day he 
was sleepless at night, and had to be soothed and coaxed 
into slumber. On such occasions she had been wont, 
with the infinite, inexhaustible patience of true love, to 
sit by his bed, pacifying his alarms, allaying his agi- 
tation, singing to him, stroking his ■ hair, holding his 
hand, till his eyes closed. And how often, just as he 
seemed about to drop asleep, had he become again 
suddenly awake, through some terror, or some imagined 
discomfort ? then all the soothing process had to be 
gone through again, and it had always been gone 
through without a murmur or an impatient word. 

Now Jamie was alone — or perhaps y^orse than alone — 
in a dormitory of idiots, whose strange ways filled him 
with terror, and his dull mind would be working to dis- 
cover how he came to be there, how it was that his Ju 
was not with him. AVho would lull his fears, who sing 
to him old familiar strains ? Would any other hand rest 
on the hot brow and hold it down on the pillow ? 

J udith looked up to heaven, to the stars already glim- 
mering there. She was not hearkening to the talk of 
Uncle Zachie : she was thinking her own thoughts. She 
was indeed walking back to Polzeath ; but her mind was 
nailed to that dull drab house in the suburbs of Wade- 
bridge with the brass plate on the door, inscribed, “ Mr. 
Scantlebray, Surgeon.” As her eyes were raised to the 
stars, she thought of her father. He was above, looking 
down on her, and it seemed to her that in the flicker of 
the stars she saw the trouble in her father’s face at the 
knowledge that his children were parted, and his poor 


IN THE BOAE OE THE SEA. 


177 


little half -bright boy was fallen among those who had 
no love for him, might have no patience with his way- 
wardness, would not make allowance for his infirmities. 

^ She sobbed, and would not be comforted by Mr. Men- 
aida’s assurances. Tired, foot-weary, but more tired and 
weary in heart and mind, she reached the cottage. She 
could not sleep ; she was restless. She sought Jamie’s 
room, and seated herself on the chair by his little bed, 
and sobbed far on into the night. Her head ached, as 
did her burning and blistered feet ; and as she sat she 
dozed off, then awoke with a start, so distinctly did she 
seem to hear Jamie’s voice — his familiar tone when in 
distress — crying, “ Ju ! Come to me, Ju ! ” So vividly 
did the voice sound to her that she could not for a mo- 
ment or two shake off the conviction that she had in 
reality heard him. She thought that he must have called 
her. He must be unhappy. What were those people 
doing to him % Were they tormenting the poor little 
frightened creature ? Were they putting him into a dark 
room by himself, and was he nearly mad with terror ? 
Were they beating him, because he cried out in the night 
and disturbed the house ? 

She imagined him sitting up on a hard bed, shivering 
with fear, looking round him in the dark, and screaming 
for her — and she could not help him. 

“ Oh, Jamie ! ” she cried, and threw herself on her 
knees and put her hands over her eyes to shut out the 
horrible sight, over her ears to close them to the pierc- 
ing cry. “ They will drive him mad ! Oh, papa ! my 
papa ! what will you say to me ? Oh, my Jamie ! what 
can I do for you ? ” 

She was half mad herself, mad with fancies, conjured 
up by the fever of distress into which she had worked 
herself. What could she do ? She could not breathe in 
that room. She could not breathe in the house. She 
could not remain so far from Jamie— and he crying for 
her. His voice rang still in her ears. It sounded in her 
heart, it drew her irresistibly away. If she could but be 
outside that drab establishment in the still night, to 
listen, and hear if all were quiet within, or whether 
Jamie were calling, shrieking for her. He would cry him- 
self into fits. He would become really deranged, unless 
he were pacified. Oh! those people !~she imagined 
they were up, not knowing what to do with the boy, un- 


178 


JZV THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


able to soothe him, and were now wishing* that she were 
there, wishing* they had not sent her away. 

Judith was in that condition which is one of half craze 
through brooding on her fears, through intense sympathy 
with the unhappy boy so ruthlessly spirited away, 
through fever of the blood, caused by long-protracted 
nervous strain, through over-weariness of mind and body. 
Jamie’s distress, his need for her became an idea that 
laid hold of her, that could not be dispelled, that 
tortured her into recklessness. She could not lie on her 
bed, she could not rest her head for one moment. She 
ran to the window, panting, and smoked the glass with 
her burning breath, so that she could not see through it. 

The night was still, the sky clear, and there were stars 
in it. Who would be abroad at that time ? What danger 
would ensue to her if she went out and ran back to 
Wadebridge ? If any foot were to be heard on the road, 
she could hide. She had gone out at night in storm to 
save Cruel Coppinger — should she not go out in still 
starlight to aid her own twin-brother, if he needed her? 
Providence had shielded her before — it would shield her 
now. 

The house was quiet. Mr. Menaida had long ago 
gone to bed, and was asleep. His snores were usually 
audible at night through the cottage. Jump was asleep, 
sound in sleep as any hard- worked sewing-wench. Judith 
had not undressed, had not taken off her shoes ; she had 
wandered, consumed by restlessness, between her own 
room and that of her brother. 

It was impossible for her to remain there. She felt 
that she would die of imaginings of evil unless she were 
near Jamie, unless there were naught but a wall between 
him and her. 

Judith descended the stairs and once again went forth 
alone into the night, not now to set her face seaward, but 
landward; before she had gone with a defined aim in 
view, to warn Coppinger of his danger, now she was 
moved by a vague suspicion of evil. 

The night was calm, but there was summer lightning 
on the horizon, attended by no thunder, a constant flicker, 
sometimes a flare, as though some bonfire were kindled 
beyond the margin of the world, that was being stirred 
and added to. The air was close. 

Judith had no one to look to in the world to help her 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


179 


and J amie — not her aunt, her sole relative, it was she 
w'ho had sent her brother to this place of restraint ; not 
Mr. Menaida, he had not the moral courag-e and energy 
of purpose to succor her in her effort to release Jamie ; 
not Captain Coppinger— him she dare not ask, lest he 
should expect too much in return. The hand of misfort- 
une was heavy on the girl ; if anything was to be done 
to relieve the pressure, she must do it herself. 

As she was going hastily along the lane she suddenly 
halted. She heard some one a little way before her. 
There was no gate near by which she could escape. The 
lane was narrow, and the hedges low, so as not to afford 
sufficient shadow to conceal her. By the red summer 
flashes she saw a man reeling toward her round the 
corner. His hat was on one side of his head, and he 
lurched first to one side of the lane, then to the other. 

There went three trav’llers over the moor — 

Ri-tiddle riddle-rol, htiph ! said he. 

Three trav’llers over the moor so green, 

The one sang high, the third sang low, 
Ri-tiddle-riddle-rol, Imph ! said he, 

And the second he trolled between.” 

Then he stood still. 

“ Huph ! huph ! ” he shouted. “ Someone else go on, 
I’m done for — ‘ Ri-tiddle-de.’ ” 

He saw Judith by the starlight and by the flicker of 
the lightning, and put his head on one side and capered 
toward her with arms extended, chirping — “ ‘ Ei-tiddle- 
riddle-rol, huph ! said he.’ ” 

Judith started on one side, and the drunken man pur- 
sued her, but in so doing, stumbled, and fell sprawling 
on the ground. He scrambled to his feet again, and 
began to swear at her and sent after her a volley of foul 
and profane words. Had he contented himself with this 
it would have been bad enough, but he also picked up a 
stone and threw it. Judith felt a blow on her head, and 
the lightning flashes seemed to be on all sides of her, 
and then great black clouds to be rising like smoke out 
of the earth about her. She staggered into the hedge, 
and sank on her knees. 

But fear lest the tipsy ruffian should pursue her nerved 
her to make an effort to escape. She quickly rose and 
ran along the lane, turned the corner, and ran on till her 


180 


IF the roar of the sea. 


feet would no longer bear her, and her breath faile^ 
Then, looking back, and seeing that she was not followed, 
she seated herself, breathless, and feeling sick, in the 
hedge, where a glow-worm was shining, with a calm, 
steady light, very different from the flicker of the stars 
above. 

As she there sat, she was conscious of something warm 
on her neck, and putting her hand up, felt that it was 
moist. She held her fingers to the faint glow of the 
worm in the grass ; there was a dark stain on her hand, 
and she was sure that it was blood. 

She felt her head swim, and knew that in another mo- 
ment she would lose consciousness, unless she made an 
effort to resist. Hastily she bound a white handker- 
chief about her head where wounded by the stone, to 
stay the flow, and walked resolutely forward. 

There was now a shadow stealing up the sky to the 
south, and obscuring the stars, a shadow behind which 
danced and wavered the electrical light, but J udith heard 
no thunder, she had not the leisure to listen for it ; all 
her anxiety was to reach Wadebridge. But the air, the 
oppressively sultry air, was charged with sound, the 
mutter and growl of the Atlantic. The ocean, never at 
rest, ever gives forth a voice, but the volume of its tone 
varies. Now it was loud and threatening, loud and 
threatening as it had been on that afternoon when Judith 
sat with her father in the rectory garden, tossing guel- 
der-roses. Then, the air had been still, but burdened 
with the menace of the sea. So it was now at midnight ; 
the ocean felt the influence of the distant storm that was 
playing far away to the south. 

Judith could not run now. Her feet were too sore, 
her strength had given way. Besolute though her will 
might be, it could not inspire with masculine strength 
the fragile little body, recently recovered from sickness. 
But it carried her into the suburbs of Wadebridge, and 
in the starlight she reached the house of Mr. Obadiah 
Scantlebray, and stood before it, looking up at it despair- 
ingly. It was not drab in color now, it was lampblack 
against a sky that flashed in the russet-light. The ker- 
chief she had tied about her head had become loose. Still 
looking at the ugly, gloomy house, she put up her arms 
and rebound it, knotting the ends more tightly, using 
care not to cover her ears, as she was intent to hear the 


IK THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 181 

least sound that issued from the asylum. But for some 
time she could hear nothing save the rush of her blood 
in her ears, foaming, hissing, like the tide entering a bay 
over reefs. With this was mingled the mutter of the At- 
lantic, beyond the hills — and now — yes, certainly now — 
the rumble of remote thunder. 

Judith had stood on the opposite side of the street 
looking up at Scantlebray’s establishment ; she saw no 
light anywhere. Now she drew near and crept along 
the walls. There was a long wing, with its back to the 
street, without a window in the wall, and she thought it 
probable that the inmates of the asylum were accommo- 
dated therein, a dormitory up stairs, play or school-rooms 
below. There Jamie must be. The only windows to 
this wing opened into the garden; and consequently 
Judith stole along the garden wall, turned the angle, 
down a little lane, and stood listening. The wall was 
high, and the summit encrusted with broken glass. She 
could see the glass prongs by the flicker of the light- 
ning. She could not possibly see over the wall ; the 
lane was too narrow for her to go back far, and the wall 
on the further side too high to climb. Not a sound 
from within reached her ears. 

In the still night she stood holding her breath. 

Then a scream startled her. 

It was the cry of a gull flying inland. 

If a gull’s cry could be heard, then surely that of her 
brother, were he awake and unhappy, and wanting her. 

She went further down the wall, and came on a small 
garden gate in it, fastened, locked from within. It had 
a stone step. On that she sank, and laid her head in her 
hands. 


CHAPTEE XXV. 


FOUND. 

Strange mystery of human sympathy ! inexplicable, 
yet very real. Irrational, yet very potent. The young 
mother has accepted an invitation to a garden-party. 
She knows that she never looked better than at present, 
with a shade of delicacy about her. She has got a new 
bonnet that is particularly becoming, and which she de- 
sires to wear in public. She has been secluded from so- 
ciety for several months, and she longs to meet her 
friends again. She knows that she is interesting, and 
believes herself to be more interesting than she really is. 
So she goes. She is talking, laughing, a little flushed 
with pleasure, when suddenly she becomes grave, the 
hand that holds the plate of raspberries and cream 
trembles. All her pleasure is gone. She knows that 
baby is crying. Her eye wanders in quest of her hus- 
band, she runs to him, touches his arm, says — 

“ Do order the carriage ; baby is crying.” 

It is all flddle-de-dee. Baby has the best of nurses, 
the snuggest, daintiest little cot ; has a fresh-opened tin 
of condensed Swiss milk. Eeason tells her that ; but no ! 
and nurse cannot do anything to pacify the child, baby 
is crying, nurse is in despair. 

In like manner now did Judith argue with herself, 
without being able to convince her heart. Her reason 
spoke and said to her — 

No sound of cries comes from the asylum. There is 
no light in any window. Every inmate is asleep, Jamie 
among them. He does not need you. He is travelling 
in dreamland. The Scantlebrays have been kind to 
him. The lady is a good, motherly body ; the gentle^ 
man’s whole soul is devoted to finding amusement and 
entertainment for the afflicted creatures under his care. 
He has played tricks before Jamie, made shadow -pict- 
ures on the wall, told funny stories, made jacks-in-the- 


IK TEE BOAE OF THE SEA. 


183 


box with liis hands, and Jamie has laughed till he was 
tired, and his heavy eyes closed with a laugh not fully 
laughed out on his lips. The Scantlebrays are paid £70 
for taking care of Jamie, and £70 in Judith’s estimation 
was a very princely sum. The £70 per annum Mr. Scan- 
tlebray v>^ould corruscate into his richest fun, and Mrs. 
Scanty ebray’s heart overflowed with warmest maternal 
affection. 

But it was in vain that Judith thus reasoned, her heart 
would not be convinced. An indescribable unrest was 
in her, and would not be laid. She knew by instinct 
that Jamie wanted her, was crying for her, was stretch- 
ing out his hands in the dark for her. 

As she sat on the step not only did reason speak, but 
judgment also. She could do nothing there. She had 
acted a foolish part in coming all that way in the dark, 
and without a chance of effecting any deliverance to 
Jamie now she had reached her destination. She had 
committed an egregious error in going such a distance 
from home, from anyone who might serve as protector to 
her in the event of danger, and there were other dangers 
she might encounter than having stones thrown at her 
by drunken men. If the watch were to find her there, 
what explanation of her presence could she give ? 
Would they take her away and lock her up for the rest 
of the night ? They could not leave her there. Large, 
warm drops, like tears from angels’ eyes, fell out of 
heaven upon her folded hands, and on her bowed neck. 

She began to feel chilled after having been heated by 
her walk, so she rose, and found that she had become 
stiff. She must move about, however sore and weary 
her feet might be. 

She had explored the lane as far as was needful. She 
could not see from it into the house, the garden, and 
playground. Was it possible that there was a lane on 
the further side of the house which would give her the 
desired opportunity ? 

Judith resolved to return by the way she had come, 
down the lane into the main street, then to walk along 
the front of the house, and explore the other side. As 
she was descending the lane she noticed, about twenty 
paces from the door, on the further side, a dense mass of 
Portugal laurel that hung over the opposite wall, cast- 
ing a shadow of inky blackness into the lane. This she 


184 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


considered might serve her as shelter when the threat- 
ening storm broke and the rain poured down. She 
walked through this shadow, and would have entered 
the street, but that she perceived certain dark objects 
passing noiselessly along it. By the flashes of light- 
ning she could distinguish men with laden asses, and 
one she saw turn to enter the lane where she was. She 
drew back hastily into the blot cast by the bush that 
swung its luxuriance over the wall, and drew as closely 
back to the wall as w^as possible. Thus she could not be 
seen, for the reflection of the lightning would not fall on 
her; every glare made the shadow seem the deeper. 
Though concealed herself, and wholly invisible, she was 
able to distinguish a man with an ass passing by, and 
then halting at the door in the wall that surrounded Mr. 
Obadiah’s tenement. There the man knocked, and ut- 
tered a x)eculiar whistle. As there ensued no immediate 
answer he knocked and whistled again, whereui)on the 
door was opened, and a word or two was passed. 

“ How many do you want, sir ? ” 

“ Four.” 

“ Any to help to carry the half-ankers ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, no odds. I’ll carry one and you the t’other. 
We’ll make two journeys, that’s all. I can’t leave 
Neddy for long, but I’ll go with you to your house- 
door.” 

Probably the person addressed nodded a reply in the 
darkness ; he made no audible answer. 

“ Which is it, Mr. Obadiah, rum or brandy ? ” 

“ Brandy.” 

“ Eight you are, then. These are brandy. You won’t 
take three brandies and one rum ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ All right, sir ; lead the way. It’s deuced dark.” 

Judith knew what this signified. Some of the house- 
holders of Wadebridge were taking in their supplies of 
spirits from the smugglers. Owing to the inconven- 
ience of it being unlawful to deal with these men for 
such goods, they had to receive their purchases at night, 
and with much secrecy. There were watchmen at Wade- 
bridge, but on such nights they judiciously patrolled 
another quarter of the town than that which received its 
supplies. The watchmen were municipal oflicials, and 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


185 


were not connected with the excise, had no particular 
regard for the inland revenue, anyhow, owed no duties 
to the officers of the coast-guard. Their superior was 
the mayor, and the mayor was fond of buying his spirits 
at the cheapest market. 

Both men disappeared. The door was left open be- 
hind them. The opportunity Judith had desired had 
come. Dare she seize it ? For a moment she ques- 
tioned her heart, then she resolutely stepped out of the 
shadow of the Portugal laurel, brushed past the patient 
ass, entered the grounds of Mr. Scantlebray’s establish- 
ment through the open garden-door, and drew behind a 
syringa bush to consider what further step she should 
take. In another moment both men were back. 

“ You are sure you don’t mind one rum ? ” 

‘‘ No.” 

“ Eight you are, then ; I’ll have it for you direct. The 
other kegs are at t’other end of the lane. You come 
with me, and we’ll have ’em down in a jiffy.” 

Judith heard both men pass out of the door. She 
looked toward the house. There was a light low down 
in a door opening into the garden or yard where she was. 

Not a moment was to be lost. As soon as the last 
kegs were brought in the house-door would be locked, 
and though she had entered the garden she would be 
unable to penetrate to the interior of the asylum. With- 
out hesitation, strong in her earnest purpose to help 
J amie to the utmost of her power, and grasping at every 
chance that offered, she hastened, cautiously indeed, but 
swiftly, to the door whence the light proceeded. The 
light was but a feeble one, and cast but a fluttering ray 
upon the gravel. Judith was careful to walk where it 
could not fall on her dress. 

The whole garden front of the house was now before 
her. She was in a sort of gravelled yard, with some 
bushes against the walls. The main block of the house 
lay to her right, and the view of it was intercepted by a 
wall. Clearly the garden space was divided, one portion 
for the house, and another, that into which she had en- 
tered, for the wing. That long wing rose before her 
with its windows all dark above, and the lower or ground 
floor also dark. Only from the door issued the light, 
and she saw that a guttering tallow candle was set there 
on the floor. 


186 


Ji\r the boar of THE SEA. 


Hastily she drew back. She heard feet on the g'ravel. 
The men were returning', Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray and 
the smugg'ler, each laden with a small cask of spirits. 

“ Eight you are,” said the man, as he set his keg- down 
in the passag-e, “ that’s yours, and I could drink your 
health, sir.” 

“ You wouldn’t— prefer % — ” Mr. Scantlebray made 
contortions with his hands between the candle and the 
wall, and threw a shadow on the surface of plaster. 

“ No, thanks sir. I’d prefer a shilling.” 

Mr. Scantlebray fumbled in his pockets, grunted 
“Humph! purse up-stairs.” Felt again, “No,” groped 
inside the breast of his waistcoat, “ another time — not 
forget.” 

The man muttered something not complimentary, and 
turned to go through the yard. 

“ Must lock door,” said Mr. Obadiah, and went after 
him. Now was Judith’s last chance. She took it at 
once ; the moment the backs of the Wo men were turned 
she darted into the passage and stood back against the 
door out of the flare of the candle. 

The passage was a sort of hall with slated floor, the 
walls plastered and whitewashed at one time, but the 
wash and plaster had been picked off to about five feet 
from the floor wherever not strongly adhesive, giving a 
diseased and sore look to the wall. The slates of the 
floor were dirty and broken. 

J udith looked along the hall for a place to which she 
could retreat on the return of the proprietor of the es- 
tablishment. She had entered that portion of the build- 
ing tenanted by the imhappy patients. The meanness 
of the i:>assage, the picked walls, the situation on one 
side of the comfortable residence showed her this. A 
door there was on the right, ajar, that led into the pri- 
vate dwelling-house, but into that Judith did not care 
to enter. One further down on the left probably gave 
access to some apartment devoted to the “pupils,” as 
Mrs. Scantlebray called the patients. 

There was, however, another door that was open, and 
from it descended a flight of brick steps to what Judith 
conjectured to be the cellars. At the bottom a second 
candle, in a tin candlestick, was guttering and flickering 
in the draught that blew in at the yard door, and de- 
scended to this underground story. It was obvious to 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


187 


the girl that Mr. Scantlebray was about to carry or roll 
his kegs just acquired down the brick steps to his cellar. 
For that purpose he had set a candle there. It would 
not therefore do for her, to attempt to avoid him, to de- 
scend to this lower region. She must pass the door 
that gave access to the cellars, a door usually locked, as 
she judged, for a large iron key stood in the lock, and 
enter the room, the door of which opened further down 
the passage. 

She was drawing her skirts together, so as to slip past - 
the candle on the passage floor for this purpose, when 
her heart stood still as though she had received a blow 
on it. She heard — proceeding from somewhere beneath 
down those steps — a moan, then a feeble cry of “ Ju ! 
Where are you ? Ju ! Ju ! Ju ! ” 

She all but did cry out herself. A gasp of pain and 
horror did escape her, and then, without a thought of 
how she could conceal herself, how avoid Scantlebray, 
she ran down the steps to the cellar. 

On reaching the bottom she found that there were 
four doors, two of which had square holes cut in them, 
but with iron bars before these openings. The door of 
one of the others, one on the left, was open, and she could 
see casks and bottles. It was a wine and spirit cellar, 
and the smell of wine issued from it. 

She stood panting, frightened, fearing what she might 
discover, doubting whether she had heard her brother’s 
voice or whether she was a prey to fancy. Then again 
she heard a cry and a moan. It issued from the nearest 
cell on her right hand. 

“ Jamie ! my Jamie ! ” she cried. 

“ Ju ! Ju ! 

The door was hasped, with a crook let into a staple so 
that it might, if necessary, be padlocked. But now it 
was simply shut and a wooden peg was thrust through 
the eye of the crook. 

She caught up the candle, and with trembling hand 
endeavored to unfasten the door, but so agitated was 
she, so blinded with horror, that she could not do so till 
she had put down the candle again. Then she forced 
the peg from its place and raised the crook. She stooped 
and took up the candle once more, and then, with a 
short breath and a contraction of the breast, threw open 
the door, stepped in, and held up the light. 


188 


IN THE ROAR OF THE 8EA. 


The candle flame irradiated what was but a cellar com- 
partment vaulted with brick, once whitewashed, now 
dirty with cobwebs and accumulated dust and damp 
stains. It had a stone shelf on one side, on which lay a 
broken i)late and some scraps of food. 

Against the further wall was a low truckle bed, with a 
mattress on it and some rags of blanket. Huddled on 
this lay Jamie, his eyes dilated with terror, and yet red 
with weeping. His clothes had been removed, except 
his shirt. His long red-gold hair had lost all its gloss 
and beautj^, it was wet with sweat and knotted. The 
boy’s face was ghastly in the flickering light. 

Judith dropped the candle on the floor, and rushed 
with outstretched arms, and a cry — piercing, but beaten 
back on her by the walls and vault of the cell— and 
caught the frightened boy to her heart. 

“ Jamie ! O my Jamie ! my Jamie ! ” 

She swayed herself, crying, in the bed, holding him 
to her, with no thought, her whole being absorbed in a 
spasm of intensest, most harrowing pain. The tallow 
candle was on the slate floor, fallen, melting, spluttering, 
flaming. 

And in the door, holding the brandy keg upon his 
shoulders, stood, with open eyes and mouth, Mr. Oba- 
diah Scantlebray. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 


AN UNWILLING PEISONEK. 

Mr. Obadiah stood open-mouthed staring’ at the twins 
clasped in each other’s arms, unable at first to under- 
stand what he saw. Then a susioicion entered his dull 
brain, he uttered a growl, put down the keg, his heavy 
brows contracted, he shut his mouth, drawing in his 
lips so that they disappeared, and he clenched his 
hands. 

“ Wait — I’ll beat you ! ” he said. 

The upset candle was on the floor, now half molten, 
with a pond of tallow burning with a lambent blue 
flicker trembling on extinction, then shooting up in a 
yellow flame. 

In that uncertain, changeful, upward light the face of 
the man looked threatening, remorseless, so that Judith, 
in a paroxysm of fear for her brother and herself dropjjed, 
on her knee, and caught at the tin candlestick as the 
only weapon of defence accessible. It was hot and 
burnt her fingers, but she did not let go ; and as she 
stood up the dissolved candle fell from it among some 
straw that littered the pavement. This at once kindled 
and blazed up into golden flame. 

For a moment the cell was full of light. Mr. Obadiah 
at once saw the danger. His casks of brandy were hard 
by — the fume of alcohol was in the air — if the fire spread 
and caught his stores a volume of flame w^ould sweep 
up the cellar stair and set his house on fire. He hastily 
sprang in, and danced about the cell stamping furious- 
ly at the ignited wisps. Judith, who saw him rush for- 
ward, thought he was about to strike her and Jamie, 
and raised the tin candlestick in self-defence ; but when 
she saw him engaged in trampling out the fire, tearing 
at the bed to drag away the blankets with which to 
smother the embers, she drew Jamie aside from his 
reach, sidled, with him clinging to her, along the wall. 


190 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


and by a sudden si3ring reached the passage, slammed 
the door, fastened the hasp, and had the gaoler secured 
in his own gaol. 

For a moment Mr. Scantlebray was unaware that he 
was a prisoner, so busily engaged was he in trampling 
out the fire, but the moment he did realize the fact he 
slung himself with all his force against the door. 

Judith looked round her. There was now no light in 
the cellar but the feeble glimmer that descended the 
stair from the candle above. The flame of that was now 
burning steadily, for the door opening into the yard was 
shut, and the draught excluded. 

In dragging Jamie along with her, Judith had drawn 
forth a scanty blanket that was about his shoulders. 
She wrapped it round the boy. 

“ Let me out ! ” roared Scantlebray. “ Don’t under- 
stand. Fun — rollicking fun.” 

Judith paid no attention to his bellow. She was con- 
cerned only to escape with Jamie. She was well aware 
that her only chance w^as by retaining Mr. Obadiah 
where he was. 

“ Let me out ! ” again shouted the prisoner ; and he 
Jirew himself furiously against the door. But though 
it jarred on its hinges and made the hasp leap, he could 
not break it down. Nevertheless, so big and strong was 
the man that it was by no means improbable that his 
repeated efforts might start a staple or snap a hinge 
band, and he and the door might come together crashing 
down into the passage between the cells. 

Judith drew Jamie up the steps, and on reaching the 
top shut the cellar door. Below, Mr. Scantlebray roared, 
swore, shouted, and beat against the door ; but now his 
voice, and the sound of his blows were muffled, and would 
almost certainly be inaudible in the dwelling-house. 
No wonder that Judith had not heard the cries of her 
brother. It had never occurred to her that the hapless 
victim of the keeper of the asylum might be chastised, 
imprisoned, variously maltreated in regions underground, 
whence no sounds of distress might reach the street, and 
apprise the passers-by that all was not laughter within. 
Standing in the passage or hall above, Judith said : 

“ Oh, Jamie ! where are your clothes ? ” 

The iDoy looked into her face with a vacant and dis- 
tressed expression. He could not answer, he did not 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 191 

even understand her question, so stupified was he by his 
terrors, and the treatment he had undergone. 

Judith took the candle from the floor and searched 
the hall. Nothing was there save Mr. Scantlebray’s coat, 
which he had removed and cast across one of the kegs 
when he prepared to convey them down to his cellar. 
Should she take that % She shook her head at the 
thought. She would not have it said that she had taken 
anything out of the house, except only — as that was an 
extreme necessity, the blanket wrapped about Jamie. 
She looked into the room that opened beyond the cellar 
door. It was a great bare apartment, containing only a 
table and some forms. 

“ J amie ! ” she said, “ we must get away from this 
place as we are. There is no help for it. Do you not 
know where your clothes were put ? ” 

He shook his head. He clung to her with both arms, 
as though afraid, if he held by but one that she would 
slip away and vanish, as one drowning, clinging to the 
only support that sustained him from sinking. 

“ Come, Jamie ! It cannot be otherwise ! ” She set 
down the candle, opened the door into the yard, and 
issued forth into the night along with the boy. The 
.clouds had broken, and poured down their deluge of 
warm thunder rain. In the dark Judith was unable to 
find her direction at once, she reached the boundary 
wall where was no door. 

Jamie uttered a cry of pain. 

“ What is it, dear % ” 

“ The stones cut my feet.” 

She felt along the wall with one hand till she touched 
the jamb, then pressed against the door itself. It was 
shut. She groped for the lock. No key was in it. She 
could as little escape from that enclosure as she could 
enter into it from without. The door was very solid, 
and the lock big and secure. What was to be done? 
Judith considered for a moment, standing in the pour- 
ing rain through which the lightning flashed obscurely, 
illumining nothing. It seemed, to her that there was but 
one course open to her, to return and obtain the key 
from Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray. But it would be no 
easy matter to induce him to surrender it. 

“ Jamie ! will you remain at the door ? Here under 
the wall is some shelter. I must go back.” 


192 m TBE ROAR OF THE 8EA. 

But the boy was frightened at the prospect of being 
deserted. 

“Then — Jamie, will you come bach with me to the 
house ? ” 

No, he would not do that. 

“ I must go for the key, dearest,” she said, coaxingly. 
“ I cannot open the door, so that we can escape, unless I 
have the key. Will you do something for Ju ? Sit 
here, on the steps, where you are somewhat screened 
from the rain, and sing to me something, one of our old 
songs— A jolly hawk and his wings were gray ? sing 
that, that I may hear your voice and find my way back 
to you. Oh — and here, Jamie, your feet are just the size 
of mine, and so you shall pull on my shoes. Then you 
will be able to run alongside of me and not hurt your 
soles.” 

With a little persuasion she induced him to do as she 
asked. She took off her own shoes and gave them to 
him, then went across the yard to where was the house, 
she discovered the door by a little streak of light below 
it and the well trampled and worn threshold stone. She 
opened the door, took up the candle and again descended 
the steps to the cellar floor. On reaching the bottom, 
she held up the light and saw that the door was still 
sound ; at the square barred opening was the red face of 
Mr. Scantlebray . 

“ Let me out,” he roared. 

“ Give me the key of the garden door.” 

“ Will you let me out if I do ? ” 

“ No ; but this I promise, as soon as I have escaped 
from your premises I will knock and ring at your front 
door till I have roused the house, and then you will be 
found and released. By that time we shall have got well 
away.” 

“ I will not give you the key.” 

“ Then here you remain,” said Judith, and began to 
reascend the steps. It had occurred to her, suddenly, 
that very possibly the key she desired was in the pocket 
of the coat Mr. Scantlebray had cast off before descend- 
ing to the cellar. She would hold no further communi- 
cation with him till she had ascertained this. He yelled 
after her “Let me out, and you shall have the key.” 
But she paid no attention to his promise. On reaching 
the top of the stairs, she again shut the door, and took 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


193 


up his coat. She searched the pockets. No kev was 
within. 

She must g’o to him once more. 

He began to shout as he saw the flicker of the candle 
approach. “Here is the key, take it, and do as you 
said.” His hand, a great coarse hand, was thrust through 
the opening in the door, and in it was the key she re- 
quired. 

“Yery well,” said she, “I will do as I undertook.” 

She put her hand, the right hand, up to receive the 
key. In her left was the candlestick. Suddenly he let 
go the key that clinked down on the floor outside, and 
made a clutch at her hand and caught her by the wrist. 
She grasped the bar in the little window, or he would 
have drawn her hand in, dragged her by the arm up 
against the door, and broken it. He now held her wrist 
and with his strong hand strove to wrench her fingers 
from their clutch. 

“Unhasp the door! ” he howled at her. 

She did not answer other than with a cry of pain, as 
he worked with his hand at her wrist, and verily it 
seemed as though the fragile bones must snap under his 
drag. 

“ Unhasp the door ! ”'he roared again. 

With his great fingers and thick nails he began to 
thrust at and ploughed her knuckles ; he had her by the 
wrist with one hand, and he was striving to loosen her 
hold of the bar with the other. 

“ Unhasp the door ! ” he yelled a third time, “ or I’ll 
break every bone in your fingers ! ” and he brought his 
fist down on the side of the door to show how he would 
pound them by a blow. If he did not do this at once it 
was because he dreaded by too heavy a blow to strike 
the bar and wound himself while crushing her hand. 

She could not hold the iron stanchion for more than 
another instant — and then he would drag her arm in, as 
a lion in its cage when it had laid hold of the incautious 
visitor, tears him to itself through the bars. 

Then she brought the candle-flame up against his hand 
that grasped her wrist, and it played round it. He ut- 
tered a scream of pain, and let go for a moment. But 
that moment sufficed. She was free. The key was on 
the floor. She stooped to pick it up ; but her fingers 
were as though paralyzed, she was forced to take it with 


194 


IK THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 


the left hand and leave the candle on the floor. Then^ 
holding the key she ran up the steps, ran out into the 
yard, and heard her brother wailing, “ Ju! I want you! 
Where are you, Ju ? ” 

Guided by his cries she reached the door. The ke> 
she put into the lock, and with a little effort turned it. 
The door opened, she and Jamie were free. 

The door shut behind them. They were in the dark 
lane, under a pouring rain. But Judith thought nothing 
of the darkness, nothing of the rain. She thpw her arms 
round her brother, put her wet cheek against his, and 
burst into tears. 

“My Jamie! O my Jamie!” 

But the deliverance of her brother was not complete ; 
she must bring him back to Polzeath. She could allow 
herself but a moment for the relief of her heart, and then 
she caught him to her side, and pushed on with him 
along the lane till they entered the street. Here she 
stood for a moment in uncertainty. Was she bound to 
fulfil her engagement to Mr. Obadiah ? She had ob- 
tained the key, but he had behaved to her with treach- 
ery. He had not intended the key to be other than a 
bait to draw her within his clutch, that he might torture 
her into opening the door of his cell. Nevertheless, she 
had the key, and Judith was too honorable to take ad- 
vantage of him. 

With Jamie still clinging to her she went up the pair 
of steps to the front door, rang the night -bell, and 
knocked long and loud. Then, all at once her strength 
that had lasted gave way, and she sank on the door- 
steps, without indeed losing consciousness, but losing 
in an instant all power of doing or thinking, of striving 
any more for Jamie or for herself. 


CHAPTEE XXm 


A RESCUE. 

A window overhead was thrown open, and a voice that 
Judith recog-nized as that of Mrs. Obadiah Scantlebray, 
called : “ Who is there ? — what is wanted ? ” 

The g'irl could not ansTver. The power to speak was 
gone from her. It was as though all her faculties, ex- 
erted to the full, had at once given way. She could not 
rise from the steps on which she had sunk : the will to 
make the effort was gone. Her head was fallen against 
the jamb of the door and the knot of the kerchief was 
between her head and the wood, and hurt her, but even 
the will to lift her hands and shift the bandage one inch 
was not present. 

The mill-wheel revolves briskly, throwing the foaming 
water out of its buckets, with a lively rattle, then its 
movement slackens, it strains, the buckets fill and even 
spill, but the wheel seems to be reduced to statuariness. 
That stress point is but for a moment, then the weight of 
the water overbalances the strain, and whirr ! round 
plunges the wheel, and the bright foaming water is 
whisked about, and the buckets disgorge their contents. 

It is the same with the wheel of human life. It has 
its periods of rapid and glad revolutions, and also its 
moments of supreme tension, when it is all but over- 
strung — when its movement is hardly perceptible. The 
strain put on Judith’s faculties had been excessive, and 
now those faculties failed her, failed her absolutely. 
The prostration might not last long — it might last for- 
ever. It is so sometimes when there has been over- 
exertion ; thought stops, will ceases to act, sensation 
dies into numbness, the heart beats slow, slower, then 
perhaps stops finally. 

It was not quite come to that with Judith. She knew 
that she had rushed into danger again, the very danger 


196 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


from which she had just escaped, she knew it, but she 
was incapable of acting on the knowledge. 

“ Who is below ? ” was again called from an upper 
window. 

Judith, with open eyes, heard that the rain was still 
falling heavily, heard the shoot of water from the roof 
plash down into the runnel of the street, felt the heavy 
drops come down on her from the architrave over the 
door, and she saw something in the roadway : shadows 
stealing along the same as she had seen before, but pass- 
ing in a reversed direction. These were again men and 
beasts, but their feet and hoofs were no longer inaudible, 
they trod in the puddles and splashed and squelched the 
water and mud about, at each step. The smugglers had 
delivered the supplies agreed on, at the houses of those 
who dealt with them, and were now returning, the asses 
no longer laden. 

And Judith heard the door behind her unbarred and 
unchained and unlocked. Then it was opened, and a ray 
of light was cast into the street, turning falling rain- 
drops into drops of liquid gold, and revealing, ghostly, 
a passing ass and its driver. 

“ Who is there % Is anyone there ? ” 

Then the blaze of light was turned on Judith, and her 
eyes shut with a spasm of pain. 

In the doorway stood Mrs. Scantlebray half -garmented, 
that is to say with a gown on, the folds of which fell 
in very straight lines from the waist to her feet, and 
with a night-cap on her head, and her curls in papers. 
She held a lamp in her hand, and this was now directed 
upon the girl, lying, or half-sitting in the door-way, 
her bandaged head leaning against the jamb, one hand 
in her lap, the fingers open, the other falling at her 
side, hanging down the steps, the fingers in the running 
current of the gutter, in which also was one shoeless 
foot. 

“ Why — goodness ! mercy on us ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Scantlebray, inconsiderately thrusting the lamp close 
into the girl’s face. “It can never be — yet — surely it 
is ” 

“Judith ! ” exclaimed a deep voice, the sound of which 
sent a sudden fiutter through the girl’s nerves and pulses. 
“ Judith ! ” and from out the darkness and falling rain 
plunged a man in full mantle wapped about him and 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


197 


overhanging’ broad-brimmed hat. Without a word of ex^ 
cuse he snatched the light from Mrs. Scantlebray and 
raised it above Judith’s head. 

“ Merciful powers ! ” he cried, “ what is the meaning of 
this? What has happened? There is blood here — 
blood ! Judith — speak. For heaven’s sake, speak ! ” 

The light fell on his face, his glittering eyes — and she 
slightly turned her head and looked at him. She opened 
her mouth to speak, but could form no words, but the 
appeal in those dim eyes went to his heart, he thrust the 
lamp roughly back into Mrs. Scantlebray’s hand, knelt 
on the steps, passed an arm under the girl, the other 
about her waist, lifted and carried her without a word 
inside the house. There was a leather-covered ottoman 
in the hall, and he laid her on that, hastily throwing off 
his cloak, folding it, and placing it as a pillow beneath 
her head. 

Then, on one knee at her side, he drew a flask from his 
breast pocket, and poured some drops of spirit down her 
throat. The strength of the brandy made her catch her 
breath, and brought a flash of red to her cheek. It had 
served its purpose, helped the wheel of life to turn be- 
yond the stress point at which it threatened to stay 
wholly. She moved her head, and looked eagerly about 
her for Jamie. He was not there. She drew a long 
breath, a sigh of relief. 

“ Are you better ? ” he asked, stooping over her, and 
she could read the intensity of his anxiety in his face. 

She tried to smile a reply, but the muscles of her lips 
were too stiff for more than a flutter. 

“ Run ! ” ordered Captain Coppinger, standing up, 
“ you woman, are you a fool ? Where is your husband ? 
He is a doctor, fetch him. The girl might die.” 

“ He — Captain — he is engaged, I believe, taking in his 
stores.” 

“ Fetch him ! Leave the lamp here.” 

Mrs. Scantlebray groped about for a candle, and hav- 
ing found one, proceeded to light it. 

“ I’m really shocked to appear before you. Captain, in 
this state of undress.” 

“ Fetch your husband ! ” said Coppinger, impatiently. 

Then she withdrew. 

The draught of spirits had acted on Judith and revived 
her. Her breath came more evenly, her heart beat regu- 


198 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


laiiy, and the blood began to circulate again. As her 
bodily powers returned, her mind began to work once 
more, and again anxiously she looked about her. 

“ What is it you want “? ” asked Captain Cruel. 

“ Where is Jamie ? ” 

He muttered a low oath. Always Jamie. She could 
think of no one but that silly boy. 

Then suddenly she recalled her position — in Scantle- 
bray’s house, and the wife was on the way to the cellars, 
would find him, release him — and though she knew that 
Coppinger would not suffer Obadiah to injure her, she 
feared, in her present weakness, a violent scene. She sat 
up, dropped her feet on the floor, and stretched both her 
hands to the smuggler. 

“ Oh, take me ! take me from here.” 

“ No, Judith,” he answered. “ You must have the doc- 
tor to see you— after that ” 

“ No ! no ! take me before he comes. He will kill me.” 

Coppinger laughed. He would like to see the man 
who would dare to lay a finger on Judith while he stood 
by. 

Now they heard a noise from the wings of the house 
at the side that communicated with the dwelling by a 
door that Mrs. Scantlebray had left ajar. There were 
exclamations, oaths, a loud, angry voice, and the shrill 
tones of the woman mingled with the bass notes of her 
husband. The color that had risen to the girl’s cheeks 
left them ; she j)ut her hands on Coppinger’s breast and 
looking him entreatingly in the eyes, said : 

“ I pray you ! I pray you ! ” 

He snatched her up in his arms, drew her close to him, 
went to the door, cast it open with his foot, and bore her 
out into the rain. There stood his mare. Black Bess, with 
a lad holding her. 

‘‘ Judith, can you ride ? ” 

He lifted her into the saddle. 

“ Boy,” said he, “ lead on gently ; I will stay her lest 
she fall.” 

Then they moved away, and saw through the sheet of 
falling rain the lighted door, and Scantlebray in it, in his 
shirt sleeves shaking his fists, and his wife behind him, 
endeavoring to draw him back by the buckle and strap 
of his waistcoat. 

“ Oh, where is Jamie ? I wonder where Jamie is ? ” said 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


199 


Judith, looking round her in the dark, but could see no 
sign of her brother. 

There were straggling houses for half a mile — a little 
gap of garden or paddock, then a cottage, then a cluster 
of trees, and an alehouse, then hedges and no more 
houses. A cooler wind was blowing, dispelling the close, 
warm atmosphere, and the rain fell less heavily. There 
was a faint light among the clouds like a watering of 
shtin. It showed that the storm was passing away. The 
lightning flashes were, moreover, at longer intervals, 
fainter, and the thunder rumbled distantly. With the 
fresher air, some strength and life came back to Judith. 
The wheel though on the turn was not yet revolving 
rapidly. 

Coppinger walked by the horse, he had his arm up, 
holding Judith, for he feared lest in her weakness she 
might fall, and indeed, by her weight upon his hand, he 
was aware that her power to sustain herself unassisted 
was not come. He looked up at her ; he could hardly 
fail to do so, standing, striding so close to her, her wet 
garments brushing his face ; but he could not see her, or 
saw her indistinctly. He had thrust her little foot into 
the leather of his stirrup, as the strap was too long for 
her to use, and he did not tarry to shorten it. 

Coppinger was much puzzled to learn how Judith had 
come at such an hour to the door of Mrs. Obadiah Scan- 
tlebray, shoeless, and with wounded head, but he asked 
no questions. He was aware that she was not in a condi- 
tion to answer them. 

He held her up with his right hand in the saddle, and 
with his left he held her foot in the leather. Were she 
to fall she might drag by the foot, and he must be on 
his guard against that. Pacing in the darkness, holding 
her, his heart beat, and his thoughts tossed and boiled 
within him. This girl so feeble, so childish, he was com- 
ing across incessantly, thrown in her way to help her, 
and he was bound to her by ties invisible, impalpable, 
and yet of such strength that he could not break through 
them and free himself. 

He was a man of indomitable will, of iron strength, 
staying up this girl, who had flickered out of uncon- 
sciousness and might slide back into it again at any mo- 
ment and yet he felt, he knew that he was powerless 
before her—that if she said to him, “ Lie down that I 


200 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


may trample on yon,” he would throw himself in the foul 
road without a word to be trodden under by these shoe- 
less feet. There was but one command she could lay on 
him that he would not perform, and that was “ Let me go 
by myself ! Never come near me ! ” That he could not 
obey. The rugged moon revolves about the earth. 
Could the moon fly away into space were the terrestrial 
orb to bid it cease to be a satellite % And if it did, whither 
would it go ? Into far oh' space, into outer darkness and 
deathly cold, to split and shiver into fragments in the 
inconceivable frost in the abyss of blackness. And Ju- 
dith threw a sort of light and heat over this tierce, undis- 
ciplined man, that trembled in his veins and bathed his 
heart, and was to him a spring of beauty, a summer of 
light. Could he leave her ? To leave her would be to be 
lost to everything that had now begun to transform his 
existence. The thought came over him now, as he 
walked along in silence — that she might bid him let go, 
and he felt that he could not obey. He must hold her, 
he must hold her not from him on the saddle, not as 
merely staying her up, but to himself, to his heart, as his 
own, his own forever. . 

Suddenly an exclamation from Judith: “Jamie! 
Jamie ! ” 

Something was visible in the darkness, something 
whitish in the hedge. In another moment it came bound- 
ing up. 

“ Ju ! oh, Ju ! I ran away ! ” 

“ You did well,” she said. “ Now I am happy. You 
are saved.” 

Coppinger looked impatiently round and saw by the 
feeble light that the boy had come close to him, and that 
he was wrapped up in a blanket. 

“ He has nothing on him,” said Judith. “ Oh, poor 
Jamie I ” 

She had revived ; she was almost herself again. She 
held herself more firmly in the saddle and did not lean 
so heavily on Coppinger’s hand. 

Coppinger was vexed at the appearance of the boy, 
Jamie ; he would fain have paced along in silence by the 
side of Judith. If she could not speak it mattered not 
so long as he held her. But that this fool should spring 
out of the darkness and join company with him and her, 
and at once awake her interest and loosen her tongue^ 


JiV" THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


201 


irritated him. But as she was able to speak he would 
address her, and not allow her to talk over his head with 
Jamie. 

“ How have you been hurt ? ” he asked. “ Why have 
you tied that bandage about your head ? ” 

“I have been cut by a stone.” 

‘‘ How came that % ” 

“ A drunken man threw it at me.” 

“ What was his name ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ That is well for him.” Then, after a short pause, he 
asked further, “ And your unshod feet ? ” 

“ Oh ! I gave my shoes to Jamie.” 

Coppinger turned sharply round on the boy. “ Take 
off those shoes instantly and give them back to your 
sister.” 

“ No — indeed, no,” said Judith. “ He is running and 
will cut his poor feet — and I, through your kindness, am 
riding.” 

Coppinger did not insist. He asked : “ But how comes 
the boy to be without clothes ? ” 

“ Because I rescued him, as he was, from the Asylum.” 
“ You — ! Is that why you are out at night ? ” 

“Yes. I knew he had been taken by the two Mr. 
Scantlebray’s at AYadebridge, and I could not rest. I felt 
sure he was miserable, and was dying for me.” 

“ So— in the night you went to him ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But how did you get him his freedom ? ” 

“I found him locked in the black-hole, in the cellar.” 
“And did Scantlebray look on passively while you 
released him ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I let Jamie out, and locked him in, in his 
place.” 

“ You — Scantlebray in the black-hole ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

Then Coppinger laughed, laughed long and boister- 
ously. His hand that held Judith’s foot and the stirrup 
leather shook with his laughter. 

“ By Heaven ! — You are wonderful, very wonderful. 
Any one who opposes you is ill-treated, knocked down 
and broken, or locked into a black hole in the dead of 
night.” 

Judith, in spite of her exhaustion, was obliged to smile, 


202 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


“ You see, I must do what I can for Jamie.” 

“ Always Jamie.” 

“ Yes, Captain Copping-er, always Jamie. He is help- 
less and must be thought for. I am mother, nurse, sis- 
ter to him.” 

“His providence,” sneered Coppinger. 

“ The means under Providence of preserving him,” said 
Judith. 

“ And me — would you do aught for me ? ” 

“ Did I not come down the cliffs for you 1 ” asked the 
girl. 

“ Heaven forgive me that I forgot that for one mo- 
ment,” he answered, with vehemence. “ Happy — happy 
— happiest of any in this vile world is the man for whom 
you will think, and scheme and care and dare — as you do 
for Jamie.” 

“ There is none such,” said Judith. 

“ No — I know that,” he answered, gloomily, and strode 
forward with his head down. 

Ten minutes had elapsed in silence, and Polzeath was 
approached. Then suddenly Coppinger let go his hold 
of Judith, caught the rein of Black jBess, and arrested 
her. Standing beside Judith, he said, in a peevish, low 
tone: 

“I touched your hand, and said I was. subject to a 
queen.” He bent, took her foot and kissed it. “ You 
repulsed me as subject; you are my mistress — accept 
me as your slave.” 


CHAPTEE XXYin. 


AN EXAMINATION. 

Some days had elapsed. Judith had not suffered from 
her second nig-ht expedition as she had from the first, 
but the intellectual abilities of Jamie had deteriorated. 
The fright he had undergone had shaken his nerves, and 
had made him more restless, timid, and helpless than 
heretofore, exacting more of Judith’s attention and more 
trying her endurance. But she trusted these ill effects 
would pass away in time. From his rambling talk she 
had been able to gather some particulars, which to a de- 
gree modified her opinion relative to the behavior of Mr. 
Obadiah Scantlebray. It appeared from the boy’s own 
account that he had been very troublesome. After he 
had been taken into the wing of the establishment that 
was occupied by the imbeciles, his alarm and bewilder- 
ment had grown. He had begun to cry and to clamor 
for his release, or for the presence of his sister. As 
night came on, paroxysms of impotent rage had alter- 
nated with fits of whining. The appearance of his com- 
panions in confinement, some of them complete idiots, 
with half -human gestures and faces, had enhanced his 
terrors. He would eat no supper, and when put to bed 
in the common dormitory had thrown off his clothes, torn 
his sheets, and refused to lie down ; had sat up and 
screamed at the top of his voice. Nothing that could be 
done, no representations would pacify him. He pre- 
vented his fellow inmates of the asylum from sleeping, 
and he made it not at all improbable that his cries 
would be overheard by passers-by in the street, or those 
occupying neighboring houses, and thus give rise to 
unpleasant surmises, and perhaps inquiry. Finally, 
Scantlebray had removed the boy to the place of punish- 
ment, the Black Hole, a compartment of the cellars, 
there to keep him till his lungs were exhausted, or his 
reason gained the upper hand, and Judith supposed, with 


204 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


some justice, that Scantlebray had done this only, or 
chiefly, because he himself would be up, and about the 
cellars, engaged in housing his supplies of brandy, and 
that he had no intention of locking the unhappy boy up 
for the entire night, in solitude, in his cellars. He had 
not left him in complete darkness, for a candle had been 
placed on the ground outside the Black Hole door. 

As Judith saw the matter now, it seemed to her that 
though Scantlebray had acted with harshness and lack 
of judgment there was some palliation for his conduct. 
That Jamie could be most exasperating, she knew full 
well by experience. When he went into one of his 
fits of temper and crying, it took many hours and much 
patience to pacify him. She had spent long time and 
exhausted her efforts to bring him to a subdued frame 
of mind on the most irrational and trifling occasions, 
when he had been angered. Nothing answered with 
him then save infinite forbearance and exuberant love. 
On this oceasion there was good excuse for Jamie’s fit, 
he had been frightened, and frightened out of his few 
wits. As Judith said to herself— had she been treated 
in the same manner, spirited off, without preparation, 
to a strange house, confined among afflicted beings, de- 
prived of every familiar companion — she would have 
been filled with terror, and reasonably so. She would 
not have exhibited it, however, in the same manner as 
Jamie. 

Scantlebray had not acted with gentleness, but he had 
not, on the other hand, exhibited wanton cruelty. That 
he was a man of coarse nature, likely on provocation to 
break through the superficial veneer of amiability, she 
concluded from her own experience, and she did not 
doubt that those of the unfortunate inmates of the 
asylum who overstrained his forbearance met with very 
rough handling. But that he took a malignant pleasure 
in harassing and torturing them, that she did not be- 
lieve. 

On the day following the escape from the asylum, Ju- 
dith sent Mr. Menaida to Wadebridge with the blanket 
that had been carried off round the shoulders of her 
brother, and with a request to have Jamie’s clothes sur- 
rendered. Uncle Zachie returned with the garments, 
they were not refused him, and Judith and her brother 
settled down into the routine of employment and amuse- 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


205 


ment as before. The lad assisted Mr. Menaida with his 
bird skins, talking a little more childishly than before, 
and sticking less assiduously to his task; and Judith 
d^ her needlework and occasionally played on the 
piano the pieces of music at which Uncle Zachie had 
hammered ineffectually for many years, and she played 
them to the old man’s satisfaction. 

At last the girl ventured to induce Jamie to recommence 
his lessons. He resisted at first, and when she did, on a 
rainy day, persuade him to set to his school tasks, she 
was careful not to hold him to them for more than a few 
minutes, and to select those lessons which made him 
least impatient. 

There was a “ Goldsmith’s Geography,” illustrated with 
copper-plates of Indians attacking Caj)tain Cook, the 
geysers, Esquimaux fishing, etc., that always amused the 
boy. Accordingly, more geography was done during 
these first days of resumption of work than history, 
arithmetic, or reading. Latin had not yet been at- 
tempted, as that was Jamie’s particular aversion. How- 
ever, the Eton Latin grammar was produced, and iDlaced 
on the table, to familiarize his mind with the idea that 
it had to be tackled some day. 

Judith had spread the table with lesson-books, ink, 
slate, and writing-copies, one morning, when she was 
surprised at the entry of four gentlemen, two of whom 
she recognized immediately as the Brothers Scantlebray. 
The other two she did not know. One was thin faced, 
with red hair, a high forehead extending to the crown, 
with the hair drawn over it, and well pomatumed, to 
keep it in place, and conceal the baldness ; the other a 
short man, in knee-breeches and tan-boots, with a red 
face, and with breath that perfumed the whole room 
with spirits. 

Mr. Scantlebray, senior, came up with both hands ex- 
tended. “ This is splendid ! How are you ? Never 
more charmed in my life, and ready to impart knowl- 
edge, as the sun diffuses light. Obadiah, old man, look 
at your pupil — better already for having passed through 
your hands. I can see it at a glance ; there’s a bright- 
ness, a Je ne sais quoi about him that was not there be- 
fore. Old man, I congratulate you. You have a gift — 
shake hands.” 

The gentlemen seated themselves without invitation. 


206 


IF THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Surprise and alarm made Judith forget her usual cour- 
tesy. She feared lest the sight of his gaolers might excite 
Jamie. But it was not so. Whether, in his confused 
mind, he did not associate Mr. Obadiah with his troubles 
on that night of distress, or whether his attention was 
distracted by the sight of so many, was doubtful, but 
Jamie did not seem to be disconcerted; rather, on the 
contrary, he was glad of some excuse for escape from 
lessons. 

“We are come,” said the red-headed man, “at Miss 
Trevisa’s desire — but really, Mr. Scantlebray, for shame 
of you. Where are your manners ? Introduce me.” 

“ Mr. Yokins,” said Scantlebray, “ and the accomplished 
and charming Miss Judith Trevisa, orphing.” 

“And now, dear young lady,” said the redheaded 
man, “now, positively, it is my turn— my friend, Mr. 
Jukes. Jukes, man! Miss Judith Trevisa.” 

Then Mr. Yokins coughed into his thin white hand, 
and said, “We are come, naturally — and I am sure you 
wish what Miss Trevisa wishes — to just look at your 
brother, and give our opinion on his health.” 

“ Oh, he is quite well,” said Judith. 

“ Ah ! you think so, naturally, but we would decide 
for ourselves, dearest young lady, though — not for the 
world would we willingly differ from you. But, you 
know, there are questions on which varieties of opinions 
are allowable, and yet do not disturb the most heartfelt 
friendship. It is so, is it not. Jukes ? ” 

The rubicund man in knee-breeches nodded. 

“Shall I begin, Jukes'? Why, my fine little man! 
What an array of books ! What scholarship ! And at 
your age, too — astounding ! What age did you say you 
were*?” This to Jamie in an insinuating tone. Jamie 
stared, looked appealingly at Judith, and said nothing. 

“We are the same age, we are twins,” said Judith. 

“ Oh ! it is not the right thing to appear anxious to 
know a lady’s age. We will put it another way, eh. 
Jukes “? ” 

The red-faced man leaned his hands on his stick, his 
chin on his hands, and winked, as in that position he 
could not nod. 

“ Now, my fine little man ! When is your birthday ? 
AVhen you have your cake — raisin-cake, eh ■? ” 

Jamie looked questioningly at his sister. 


IN THE ROAB OF THE SEA. 207 

“ Ah ! Come, not the day of the month — but the 
month, eh ? ” 

Jamie could not answer. 

“ Come now,” said the red headed levy man, stretching* 
his leg's before him, leg's vested in white trousers, 
strapped down tight. “ Come now, my splendid speci- 
men of humanity ! In which quarter of the year ? Be- 
tween sickle and scythe, eh ? ” He waited, and receiving 
no answer, pulled out a pocket-book and made a note, 
after having first wetted the end of his pencil. “ Don’t 
know when he was born. What do you say to that, 
Jukes ? Will you take your turn ? ” 

The man with an inflamed face was gradually becom- 
ing purple, as he leaned forward on his stick, and said, 
“ Humph ! a Latin grammar. Propria quae maribus. I 
remember it, but it was a long time ago I learned it. 
Now, whipper-snapper! How do you get on? Propria 
quae maribus — Go on.” He waited. Jamie looked at 
him in astonishment. “ Come ! Tribu — ” again he 
waited. “ Come ! Trihuntur mascula dicas. Go on.” 
Again a pause. Then with an impatient growl. “ Ut 
sunt divorum. Mars, Bacchus, Apollo. Thjs will never 
do. Go on with the Scaramouch, Vokins. I’ll make my 
annotations.” 

“ He’s too hard on my little chap, aint he ? ” asked 
the thin man in ducks. “We won’t be done. We are 
not old enough ” 

“He is but eighteen,” said Judith. 

“He is but eighteen,” repeated the red-headed man. 
“ Of course he has not got so far as that, but musa, 
musse.” 

Jamie turned sulky. 

“Not musa, musse — and eighteen years! Jukes, this 
is serious. Jukes ; eh. Jukes ? ” 

“ Now look here, you fellows,” said Scantlebray, senior. 
“ You are too exacting. It’s holiday time, ain’t it, Or- 
phing ? We won’t be put upon, not we. We’ll sport, 
and frolic, and be joyful. Look here. Scanty, old man, 
take the slate and draw a pictur’ to my describing. 
Now then, Jamie, look at him and hearken to me. He’s 
the funniest old man that ever was, and hell surprise 
you. Are you ready. Scanty?” Mr. Obadiah drew the 
slate before him, and signed with the pencil to J amie to 
observe him. The boy was quite ready to see him draw. 


208 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ There was once upon a time,” beg’an Mr. Scantlebray, 
senior, “ a man that lived in a round tower. Look at 
him, draw it, there you are. That is the tower. Go on. 
And in the tower was a round winder. Do you see the 
winder, Orphing*? This man every morning put his 
hand out ‘ of the winder to ascertain which way the wdnd 
blew. He put it in thus, and drew it out thus. No ! 
don’t look at me, look at the slate and then you’ll see it 
all. Now this man had a large pond, preserved full of 
fish.” Scratch, scratch went the pencil on the slate. 
“ Them’s the fish,” said Scantlebray, senior. ^ “ Now be- 
low the situation of that pond, in two huts, lived a pair 
of thieves. You see them pokey things my brother has 
drawn % Them’s the ’uts. When night set in, these 
wicked thieves came ’vmlking up to the pond, see my 
brother drawing their respective courses ! And on reach- 
ing the pond, they opened the sluice, and whish ! whish ! 
out poured the water.” Scratch, scratch, squeak, squeak, 
went the pencil on the slate. “ There now ! the naughty 
robbers went after fish, and got a goose! Look! a 
goo-oose.” 

“ Where’s the goose ? ” asked Jamie. 

“ Where ? Before your eyes — under your nose. That 
brilliant brother of mine has drawn one. Hold the slate 
up. Scanty.” 

“ That’s not a goose,” said Jamie. 

“ Not a goose ! You don’t know what geese are.” 

“ Yes, I do,” retorted the boy, resentfully, “ I know the 
wild goose and the tame one — which do you call that ? ” 

“ Oh, wild goose, of course.” 

“ It’s not one. A goose hasn’t a tail like that, nor such 
legs,” said Jamie, contemptuously. 

Mr. Scantlebray, senior, looked at Messrs. Yokins and 
Jukes and shook his head. “ A bad case. Don’t know a 
goose when he sees it — and he is eighteen.” 

Both Yokins and Jukes made an entry in their pocket- 
books. 

“ Now Jukes,” said Yokins, “ will you take a turn, or 
shall I?” 

“ Oh, you, Yokins,” answered Jukes, “ I haven’t re- 
covered propria quoe marihus, yet.” 

“Yery well, my interesting young friend. Suppose 
now we change the subject and try arithmetic.” 

*‘I don’t want any arithmetic,” said Jamie, sulkily. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


209 


“ No — come — now we won’t call it by that name ; sup- 
pose some one were to give j^ou a shilling.” 

J amie looked up interested. 

“ And suppose he were to say. There— go and buy 
sweeties with this shilling. Tartlets at three for two 
pence, and barley -sugar at three farthings a stick, 
and ” 

“I want my shilling back,” said Jamie, looking 
straight into the face of Mr. Scantlebray, senior. 

“ And that there were burnt almonds at two pence an 
ounce.” 

“I wank my shilling,” exclaimed the boy, angrily. 

‘‘ Your shilling, puff! puff! ” said the red-headed man. 
“This is ideal, an ideal shilling, and ideal jam-tarts, 
almond rock, burnt almonds or what you like.” 

“ Give me back my shilling. I won it fair,” persisted 
Jamie. 

Then Judith, distressed, interfered. “Jamie, dear! 
what do you mean ? You have no shilling owing to 
you.” 

“ I have ! I have ! ” screamed the boy. “ I won it fair 
of that man there, because I made a rabbit, and he took 
it from me again.” 

“ Hallucinations,” said Jukes. 

“ Quite so,” said Yokins. 

“ Give me my shilling. It is a cheat!” cried Jamie, 
now suddenly roused into one of his fits of passion. 

Judith caught him by the arm, and endeavored to pacify 
him. 

“ Let go, Ju ! I will have my shilling. That man took 
it away. He is a cheat, a thief. Give me my shilling.” 

“ I am afraid he is excitable,” said Yokins. 

“Like all irrational beings,” answered Jukes. “I’ll 
make a note. Eising out of hallucinations.” 

“ I will have my shilling,” persisted Jamie. “ Give me 
my shilling or I’ll throw the ink at you.” 

He caught up the ink-pot, and before Judith had time 
to interfere had fiung it across the table, intending to 
hit Mr. Scantlebray, senior, but not hurt him, and the 
black fiuid was scattered over Mr. Yokins’s white trousers. 

“ Bless my life ! ” exclaimed this gentleman, springing 
to his feet, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe away 
the ink, and only smearing it the more over his “ ducks ” 
and discoloring as well, his kerchief. “ Bless my life — 


210 IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 

Jukes! a dangerous lunatic. Note at once. Clearly 
comes within the act. Clearly.” 

In a few minutes all had left, and Judith was endeavor- 
ing to pacify her irritated brother. His fingers were 
blackened, and finally she persuaded him to go up -stairs 
and wash his hands clear of the ink. 

Then she ran into the adjoining room to Mr. Menaida. 
“ Oh, dear Mr. Menaida I ” she said, “ what does this 
mean ? Why have they been here ? ” 

Uncle Zachie looked grave and discomposed. 

“ My dear,” said he. “ Those were doctors, and they 
have been here, sent by your aunt, to examine into the 
condition of J amie’s intellect, and to report on what they 
have observed. There was a little going beyond the law, 
perhaps, at first. That is why they took it so easily 
when you carried Jamie off. They knew you were with 
an old lawyer ; they knew that you or I could sue for a 
writ of Habeas Corpus.” 

“But do you really think — that Aunt Dionysia is 
going to have Jamie sent back to that man at Wade- 
bridge ? ” 

“ I am certain of it. That is why they came here to- 
day.” 

“ Can I not prevent it 1 ” 

“ I do not think so. If you go to law ” 

“ But if they once get him, they will make an idiot or 
a madman of him.” 

“ Then you must see your aunt and persuade her not to 
send him there.” 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

ON A peacock’s FEATHEK. 

As Mr. Menaida spoke, Miss Dionysia Trevisa entered, 
stiff, hard, and when her eyes fell on Judith, they con- 
tracted with an expression of antipathy. In the eyes 
alone was this observable, for her face was immovable. 

“Auntie!” exclaimed Judith, drawing* her into the 
sitting*-room, and pressing* her to take the arm-chair. 
‘ Oh, Auntie! I have so long*ed to see you — there have 
been some dreadful men here — doctors I think — and 
they have been teasing* Jamie, till they had worked him 
into one of his temper fits.” 

“ I sent them here, and for g*ood reasons. Jamie is to 
g*o back to Wadebridg*e.” 

“ Xo— indeed no ! auntie ! do not say that. You would 
not say it if you knew all.” 

“I know quite enoug*h. More than is pleasing* to me. 
I have heard of your outrag*eous and unbecoming* con- 
duct. Hoity ! toity ! To think that a Trevisa — but there 
you are one only in name — should g*o out at nig*ht, about 
the streets and lanes, like a common stray. Bless me ! 
you might have knocked me down with a touch, v/hen I 
was told of it.” 

“I did nothing outrageous and unbecoming, aunt. 
You may be sure of that. I am quite aware that I am a 
Trevisa, and a gentlewoman, and something higher than 
that, aunt — a Christian. My father never let me forget 
that.” 

“ Your conduct was — well I will give it no expletive.” 

“ Aunt, I did what was right. I was sure that Jamie 
was unhappy and wanted me. I cannot tell you how I 
knew it, but I was certain of it, and I had no peace till I 
went ; and, as I found the garden door open, I went in, 
and as I went in I found Jamie locked up in the cellars, 
and I freed him. Had you found him there, you would 
have done the same.” 


212 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


“ I have heard all about it. I want no repetition of a 
very scandalous story. Against my will I am burdened 
with an intolerable obligation, to look after an idiot 
nephew and a niece that is a self-willed and perverse 
Miss.” 

“ Jamie is no idiot,” answered Judith, firmly. 

“ Jamie is what those pronounce him to be, who by 
their age, their profession, and their inquiries are calcu- 
lated to judge better than an ignorant girl, not out of 
her teens.” 

“ Auntie I believe you have been misinformed. Listen 
to me, and I will tell you what happened. As for those 
men ” 

“ Those men were doctors. Perhaps they were misin- 
formed when they went through the College of Sur- 
geons, were misinformed by all the medical books they 
have read, were misdirected by all the study of the men- 
tal and bodily maladies of men they have made, in their 
professional course.” 

“I wish, dear Aunt Dionysia, you would take Jamie 
to be with you a few weeks, talk to him, play with him, 
go walks with him, and you will never say that he is an 
idiot. He needs careful management, and also a little 
application ” 

“Enough of that theme,” interrupted Miss Trevisa, 
“ I have not come here to be drawn into an argument, or 
to listen to your ideas of the condition of that unhappy, 
troublesome, that provoking boy. I wish to heaven I 
had not the responsibility for him, that has been thrust 
on me, but as I have to exercise it, and there is no one to 
relieve me of it, I must do my best, though it is a great 
expense to me. Seventy pounds is not seventy shillings, 
nor is it seventy pence.” 

“ Aunt, he is not to go back to the asylum. He must 
not go.” 

“ Hoity toity ! must not indeed. You, a minx of eigh- 
teen to dictate to me ! Must not, indeed ! You seem to 
think that you, and not I, are Jamie’s guardian.” 

“ Papa entrusted him to me with his last words.” 

“ I know nothing about last words. In his will I am 
constituted his guardian and yours, and as such I shall 
act as my convenience— conscience I mean, dictates.” 

“ But, Aunt ! Jamie is not to go back to Wadebridge. 
Aunt ! I entreat you ! I know what that place is. I have 


JJV' THE HOAR OF THE SEA, 213 

been inside it, you bave not. And just think of Jamie 
on the very first night being locked up there.” 

“He richly deserved it, I will be bound.” 

“ Oh, Aunt ! How could he ? How could he ? ” 

“ Of that Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray was the best judge. 
Why he had to be punished you do not know.” 

“ Indeed I do. He cried because the place was strange, 
and he was among strange faces. Aunt — if you were 
whipped off to Timbuctoo, and suddenly found yourself 
among savages, and in a rush apron, as the squaw of a 
black chief, or whatever they call their wives in Timbuc- 
too land, would you not scream *? ” 

“ Judith,” said Miss Trevisa, bridling up. “ You forget 
yourself.” 

“ No, Aunt ! I am only pleading for Jamie, trying to 
make you feel for him, when he was locked up in an asy- 
lum. How would you like it. Aunt, if you were snatched 
away to Barthelmy fair, and suddenly found yourself 
among tight-rope dancers, and Jack Puddings ? ” 

“ Judith, I insist on you holding your tongue. I object 
to being associated even in fancy, with such creatures.” 

“ Well — but Jamie was associated, not in fancy, but in 
horrible reality, with idiots.” 

“Jamie goes to Scantlebray’s Asylum to-day.” 

“ Auntie ! ” 

“ He is already in the hands of the brothers Scantle- 
bray.” 

“ Oh, Auntie — no — no ! ” 

“ It is no pleasure to me to have to find the money, 
you may well believe. Seventy pounds is not, as I said, 
seventy pence, it is not seventy farthings. But duty is 
duty, and however painful and unpleasant and costly, it 
must be performed.” 

Then from the adjoining room, “ the shop,” came Mr. 
Menaida. 

“ I beg pardon for an interruption and for interfer- 
ence,” said he. “ I happen to have overheard what has 
passed, as I was engaged in the next room, and I believe 
that I can make a proposal which will perhaps be ac- 
ceptable to you. Miss Trevisa, and grateful to Miss Ju- 
dith.” 

“ I am ready to listen to you,” said Aunt Dionysia, 
haughtily. 

“It is this,” said Uncle Zachie. “I understand that 


214 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


pecuniary matters concerning* Jamie are a little irksome. 
Now the boy, if he puts his mind to it, can be useful to 
me. He has a remarkable aptitude for taxidermy. I 
have more orders on my hands than I can attend to. I 
am a g*entleman, not a tradesman, and I object to be op- 
pressed — flattened out — with the orders piled on top of 
me. But if the boy will help, he can earn sufflcient to 
pay for his living* here with me.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Menaida, dear Mr. Menaida ! thank you so 
much,” exclaimed Judith. 

“ Perhaps you will allow me to speak,” said Miss Tre- 
visa, with asperity. “ I am g*uardian, and not you, what- 
ever you may think from certain vague expressions 
breathed casually from my poor brother’s lips, and to 
which you have attached an importance he never gave to 
them.” 

“ Aunt, I assure you, my dear papa ” 

“ That question is closed. We will not reopen it. I 
am a Trevisa. I can’t for a moment imagine where you 
got those ideas. Not from your father’s family, I am 
sure. Tight-rope dancers and Timbuctoos, indeed ! ” 
Then she turned to Mr. Menaida, and said, in her hard, 
constrained voice, as though she were exercising great 
moral control to ]3revent herself from snapping at him 
with her teeth. “ Your proposal is kind and well inten- 
tioned, but I cannot accept it.” 

“ Oh, Aunt ! why not ? ” 

“ That you shall hear. I must beg you not to inter- 
rupt me. You are so familiar with the manners of Tim- 
buctoo and of Barthelmy Fair, that you forget those 
pertaining to England and polished society.” Then, 
turning to Mr, Menaida, she said: “I thank you for 
your well-intentioned proposal, which, however, it is not 
possible for me to close with. I must consider the boy’s 
ulterior advantage, not the immediate relief to my 
sorely-taxed purse. I have thought proper to place 
Jamm with a person, a gentleman of experience, and 
highly qualifled to deal with those mentally afflicted. 
However much I may value you, Mr. Menaida, you must 
excuse me for saying that firmness is not a quality you 
have cultivated with assiduity. Judith, my niece, has 
almost ruined the boy by humoring him. You cannot 
stiffen a jelly by setting it in the sun, or in a chair be- 
fore the fire, and that is what my niece has been doing. 


rjsr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


215 


The boy must be isinglassed into solidity by those who 
know how to treat him. Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray is 
the man ” 

“ To^ manufacture idiots, madam, out of simple inno- 
cents, it is worth his while at seventy pounds a year,” 
said Uncle Zachie, petulantly. 

Miss Trevisa looked at him stonily, and said : “ Sir ! 

I suppose you know best. But it strikes me that such a 
statement, relative to Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray, is ac- 
tionable. But you know best, being a solicitor.” 

Mr. Menaida winced and drew back. 

Judith leaned against the mantel-shelf, trembling with 
anxiety and some anger. She thought that her aunt 
was acting in a heartless manner toward Jamie, that 
there was no good reason for refusing the generous offer 
of Uncle Zachie. In her agitation, unable to keep her 
fingers at rest, the girl played with the little chimney 
ornaments. She must occupy her nervous, twitching 
hands about something ; tears of distressed mortification 
were swelling in her heart, and a fire was burning in two 
flames in her cheeks. What could she do to save Jamie ? 
What would become of the boy at the asylum? It 
seemed to her that he would be driven out of his few 
wits, by terror and ill-treatment, and distress at leaving 
her and losing his liberty to ramble about the cliffs 
where he liked. In a vase on the chimney-piece was a 
bunch of peacock’s feathers, and in her agitation, not 
thinking what she was about, desirous only of having 
something to pick at and play with in her hands, to dis- 
guise the trembling of the fingers, she took out one of the 
plumes and trifled with it, waving it and letting the 
light undulate over its wondrous surface of gold and 
green and blue. 

“ As long as I have responsibility for the urchin ” 

said Miss Dionysia. 

“ Urchin ! ” muttered Judith. 

“ As long as I have the charge I shall do my duty ac- 
cording to my lights,^ though they may not be those of a 
rush-aproned squaw in Timbuctoo, nor of a Jack Pud- 
ding balancing a feather on his nose.” There was here 
a spiteful glance at Judith. “When niy niece has a 
home of her own — is settled into a position of security 
and comfort — then I wash my hands of the responsibil- 
ity ; she may do what she likes then— bring her brother 


216 


IK THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


to live with her if she chooses and her husband consents 
— that will be naught to me.” 

“And in the mean time,” said Judith, holding the 
peacock’s feather very still before her, “ in the mean 
time Jamie’s mind is withered and stunted — his whole 
life is spoiled. Now — now alone can he be given a turn 
aright and toward growth.” 

“ That entirely depends on you,” said Miss Trevisa, 
coldly. “You know best what opportunities have of- 
fered ” 

“ Aunt, what do you mean ? ” 

“ Wait,” said Uncle Zachie, rubbing his hands. “ My 
boy Oliver is coming home. He has written his situa- 
tion is a good one now.” 

Miss Trevisa turned on him with a face of marble. “ I 
entirely fail to see what your son Oliver has to do with 
the matter, more than the man in the moon. May I 
trouble you, as you so deeply interest yourself in our 
concerns, to step outside to Messrs. Scantlebray and that 
boy, and ask them to bring him in here. I have told 
them what the circumstances are, and they are pre- 
pared.” 

Mr. Menaida left the room, not altogether unwdlling 
to escape. 

“Now,” said Aunt Dionysia, “I am relieved to find 
that for a minute, we are by ourselves, not subjected to 
the prying and eavesdropping of the impertinent and 
meddlesome. Mr. Menaida is a man who never did good 
to himself or to anyone else in his life, though a man 
with the best intentions under the sun. Now, Judith, I 
am a plain woman — that is to say — not plain, but 
straightforward — and I like to have everything above 
board. The case stands thus. I, in my capacity as 
guardian to that boy, am resolved to consign him im- 
mediately to the asylum, and to retain him there as long 
as my authority lasts, though it will cost me a pretty 
sum. You do not desire that he should go there. Well 
and good. There is but one way, but that is effectual, 
by means of which you can free Jamie from restraint. 
Let me tell you he is now in the hands of Mr. Obadiah, 
and gagged that he may not rouse the neighborhood 
with his screams.” Miss Trevisa fixed her hard eyes on 
Judith. “ As soon as you take the responsibility off me, 
^nd on to yourself, you do with the boy what you like/’ 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


217 


“ I will relieve you at once.” 

“ You are not in a condition to do so. As soon as 1 
am satisfied that your future is secure, that you will have 
a house to call your own, and a certainty of subsistence 
for you both — then I will lay down my charge.” 

“ And you mean ” 

“ I mean that you must first accept Captain Coppinger, 
who has been good enough to find you not intolerable. 
He is — in this one particular — unreasonable, however, 
he is what he is, in this matter. He makes you the offer, 
gives you the chance. Take it, and you provide Jamie 
and yourself with a home, he has his freedom, and you 
can manage or mismanage him as you list. Kefuse the 
chance and J amie is lodged in Mr. Scantlebray’s estab- 
lishment within an hour.” 

“ I cannot decide this on the spur of the moment.” 

“ Very well. You can let Jamie go provisionally to the 
asylum — and stay there till yoii have made up your mind.” 

“ No — no — no — Aunt ! Never, never ! ” 

“ As you will.” Miss Trevisa shrugged her shoulders, 
and cast a glance at her niece like a dagger-stab. 

“ Auntie — I am but a child.” 

“ That may be. But there are times when even chil- 
dren must decide momentous questions. A boy as a 
child decides on his profession, a girl — may be — on her 
marriage.” 

“ Oh, dear Auntie ! Do leave Jamie here for, say a fort- 
night, and in a fortnight from to-day you shall have my 
answer.” 

“ No,” answered Miss Trevisa, “ I also must decide as 
to my future, for your decision affects not Jamie only but 
me also.” 

Judith had listened in great self-restraint, holding the 
feather before her. She held it between thumb and fore- 
finger of both hands, not concerning herself about it, 
and yet with her eyes watching the undulations from the 
end of the quill to the deep blue eye set in a halo of 
gold at the further end, and the feather undulated with 
every rise and fall of her bosom. 

“ Surely, Auntie ! You cannot wish me to marry Cruel 

Coppinger ? ” , -oi 

“ I have no wishes one way or the other. Please your- 

self.” 

“Put, Auntie ” 


218 


US' THE ROAE OF THE SEA. 


“ You profess to be ready to do all you can for Jamie 
and yet hesitate about relieving- me of an irksome charge, 
and Jamie of what you consider barbarous treatment.” 

“ You cannot be serious — I to marry Captain Cruel ! ” 

“It is a serious offer.” 

“ But papa ! — what would he say 1 ” 

“ I never was in a position to tell his thoughts and 
guess what his words would be.” 

“ But, Auntie — he is such a bad man.” 

“ You know a great deal more about him than I do, 
of course.” 

“ But — he is a smuggler, I do know that.” 

“ Well — and what of that. There is no crime in that.” 

“ It is not an honest profession. They say, too, that 
he is a wrecker.” 

“ They say ! — who say 1 What do you know ? ” 

“ Nothing, but I am not likely to trust my future to a 
man of whom such tales are told. Auntie! Would you, 
supposing that you were ” 

“ I will have none of your suppositions, I never did 
wear a rush apron, nor act as Jack Pudding.” 

“ I cannot — Captain Cruel of all men.” 

“ Is he so hateful to you ” 

“ Hateful — no ; but I cannot like him. He has been 
kind, but — somehow I can’t think of him as — as — as a 
man of our class and thoughts and ways, as one worthy 
of my own, own papa. No — it is impossible, I am still 
a child.” 

She took the end of the peacock’s feather, the splendid 
eye lustrous with metallic beauty, and bowed the plume 
without breaking it, and, unconscious of what she was 
doing, stroked her lips with it. What a fragile fine 
quill that was on which hung so much beauty ? and how' 
worthless the feather would be when that quill was 
broken. And so with her — her fine, elastic, strong spirit, 
that when bowed sprang to its uprightness the moment 
the pressure was withdrawn ; that on which all her charm, 
her beauty hung. 

“ Captain Coppinger has, surely, never asked you to 
put this alternative to me “? ” 

“ No— I do it myself. As yon are a child, you are un- 
fit to take charge of your brother. When you are en- 
gaged to be married you are a woman ; I shift my load 
pn you them” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


219 


“ And you wish it ? ” 

“ I repeat I have no wishes in the matter.” 

“ Give me time to consider.” 

“ No. It must be decided now — that is to say if you 
do not wish J amie to be taken away. Don’t fancy I want 
to persuade you ; but I want to be satisfied about my 
own future. I shall not remain in Pentyre with you. As 
you enter by the front door, I leave by the back.” 

“ Where will you go ? ” 

“ That is my affair.” 

Then in at the door came the two Scantlebrays and 
Janiie between them, gagged and with his hands bound 
behind his back. He had run out, directly his exami- 
nation was over, and had been secured, almost without 
resistance, so taken by surprise was he, and reduced to a 
condition of helplessness. 

^ Judith leaned against the mantel-shelf, with every 
tinge of color gone out of her cheeks. Jamie’s fright- 
ened eyes met hers, and he made a slight struggle to 
si^eak, and to escape to her. 

“ You have a close conveyance ready for your pa- 
tient ? ” asked Aunt Dionysia of the brothers. 

“ Oh, yes, a very snug little box on wheels. Scanty 
and I will sit with our young man, to prevent his feeling 
dull, you know.” 

“ You understand, gentlemen, what I told you, that in 
the deciding whether the boy is to go with you or not, I 
am not the only one to be considered. If I have my 
will, go he shall, as I am convinced that your establish- 
ment is the very place for him ; but my niece. Miss Ju- 
dith, has at her option the chance of taking the respon- 
sibility for the boy off my shoulders, and if she chooses 
to do that, why then, I fear she will continue to spoil 
him, as she has done heretofore.” 

“ It has cost us time and money,” said Scantlebray, 
senior. 

“ And you shall be paid, whichever way is decided,” said 
Miss Trevisa. “ Every thing now rests with my niece.” 

Judith seemed as one petrified. One hand was on 
her bosom, staying her heart, the other held the pea- 
cock’s feather before her, horizontally. Every particle 
of color had deserted, not her face only, but her hands 
as v^ell. Her eyes were sunless, her lips contracted and 
livid. She was motionless as a parian statue, she hardly 


220 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


seemed to breathe. She perfectly understood what her 
aunt had laid upon her, her bodily sensations were dead 
whilst a conflict of ideas raged in her brain. She was 
the arbiter of Jamie’s fate. She did not disguise from 
herself that if consigned to the keeper of the asylum, 
though only for a week or two, he would not leave his 
charge the same as he entered. And what would it 
avail her or him to postpone the decision a week or a 
fortnight. 

The brothers Scantlebray knew nothing of the ques- 
tion agitating her, but they saw that the determination 
at which she was resolving was one that cost her all her 
powers. Mr. Obadiah’s heavy mind did not exert itself 
to probe the secret, but the more eager intellect of his 
elder brother was alert, and wondering what might be 
the matter that so affected the girl, and made it so diffi- 
cult for her to pronounce the decision. The hard eyes of 
Miss Trevisa were fixed on her. Judith’s answer would 
decide her future — on it depended Othello Cottage, and 
an annuity of fifty pounds. Jamie looked through a veil 
of tears at his sister, and never for a moment turned 
them from her, from the moment of his entry into the 
room. Instinctively the boy felt that his freedom and 
happiness depended on her. 

One or the other must be sacrificed. That Judith saw 
Jamie was dull of mind, but there were possibilities of 
development in it. And, even if he remained where he 
was, he was happy, happy and really harmless, if a little 
mischievous ; an offer had been made which was likely 
to lead him on into industrious ways, and to teach him 
application. He loved his liberty, loved it as does the 
gull. In an . asylum he would pine, his mind become 
more enfeebled, and he would die. But then — what a 
price must be paid to save him ? Oh, if she could have 
put the question to her father. But she had none to 
appeal to for advice. If she gave to Jamie liberty and 
happiness, it was at the certain sacrifice of her own. 
But there was no evading the decision, one or the other 
must go. 

She stretched forth the peacock’s feather, laid the 
great indigo blue eye on the bands that held Jamie, on 
his gagged lips, and said : “ Let him go.” 

“ You agree ! ” exclaimed Miss Trevisa. 

Judith doubled the peacock’s feather and broke it. 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

THROUGH THE TAMARISKS. 

For some time after Judith had given her consent, and 
had released Jamie from the hands of the Scantlebrays, 
she remained, still and white. Uncle Zachie missed the 
music to which he had become used, and complained. 
She then seated herself at the piano, but was distraught, 
played badly, and the old bird-stuffer went away grum- 
bling to his shop. 

Jamie was happy, delighted not to be afflicted with 
lessons, and forgot past troubles in present pleasures. 
That the recovery of his liberty had been bought at a 
heavy price, he did not know, and would not have ap- 
preciated it had he been told the sacrifice Judith had 
been ready to make for his sake. 

In the garden behind the cottage was an arbor, com- 
posed of half a boat set up, that is to say, an old boat 
sawn in half, and erected so that it served as a shelter 
to a seat, which was fixed into the earth on posts. From 
one side of this boat a trellis had been drawn, and cov- 
ered with eschalonia, and a seat placed here as well, so 
that in this rude arbor it was possible for more than one 
to find accommodation. Here Judith and Jamie often sat ; 
the back of the boat was set against the prevailing wind 
from the sea, and on this coast the air is unusually 
soft at the same time that it is bracing, enjoyable wher- 
ever a little shelter is provided against its violence. 
For violent it can be, and can buffet severely, yet its 
blows are those of a pillow. 

Here Judith was sitting one afternoon, alone, lost in 
a dream, when Uncle Zachie came into the garden with 
his pipe in his mouth, to stretch his legs, after a few 
minutes’ work at stuffing a cormorant. 

In her lap lay a stocking Judith was knitting for her 
brother, but she had made few stitches, and yet had been 
an hour in the summer-house. The garden of Mr. Men- 


222 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


aida was hedged off from a neighbor’s grounds by a low 
wall of stone and clay and sand, in and out of which 
grew roughly strong tamarisks now in their full pale 
pink blossom. The eyes of Judith had been on these 
tamarisks, waving like plumes in the sea-air, when she 
was startled from her reverie by the voice of Uncle 
Zachie. 

“ Why, Miss Judith ! What is the matter with you ? 
Dull, eh ? Ah — wait a bit, when Oliver comes home we 
shall have mirth. He is full of merriment. A bright 
boy and a good son ; altogether a fellow to be proud of, 
though I say it. He will return at the fall.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, Mr. Menaida. You have not 
seen him for many years.” 

“ Not for ten.” 

“ It will be a veritable feast to you. Does he remain 
long in England ? ” 

“ I cannot say. If his employers find work for him at 
home, then at home he will tarry, but if they consider 
themselves best served by him at Oporto, then to Portu- 
gal must he return.” 

“ Will you honor me by taking a seat near me — under 
the trellis ? ” asked Judith. “ It will indeed be a pleasure 
to me to have a talk with you ; and I do need it very 
sore. My heart is so full that I feel I must spill some 
of it before a friend.” 

“ Then indeed I will hold out both hands to catch the 
sweetness.” 

“ Nay — it is bitter, not sweet, bitter as gall, and briny 
as the ocean.” 

“ Not possible ; a little salt gives savor.” 

She shook her head, took up the stocking, did a couple 
of stitches, and put it down again. The sea-breeze that 
tossed the pink bunches of tamarisk waved stray tresses 
of her red-gold hair, but somehow the brilliancy, the 
burnish, seemed gone from it. Her eyes were sunken, 
and there was a greenish tinge about the ivory white 
surrounding her mouth. 

“ I cannot work, dear Mr. Menaida ; I am so sorry that 
I should have played badly that sonata last night. 1 knew 
it fretted you, but I could not help myself, my mind is so 
selfishly directed that I cannot attend to anything even 
of Beethoven’s in music, nor to stocking-knitting even for 
Jamie.” 


Iisr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


223 


“ And what are the bitter — briny thoug-hts *? ” 

Judith did not answer at once, she looked down into 
her lap, and Mr. Menaida, whose pipe was choked, went 
to the tamarisks and plucked a little piece, stripped off 
the flower and proceeded to clear the tube with it.” 

Presently, while Uncle Zachie’s eyes were engaged on 
the pipe, Judith looked up, and said hastily, “lam very 
young, Mr. Menaida.” 

“ A fault in process of rectification every day,” said he, 
blowing through the stem of his pipe. “ I think it is 
clear now.” 

“ I mean — young to be married.” 

“ To be married ! Zounds ! ” He turned his eyes on 
her in surprise, holding the tamarisk spill in one hand 
and the pipe in the other, poised in the air. 

“ You have not understood that I got Jamie off the 
other day only by taking full charge of him upon myself 
and relieving my aunt.” 

“ But — good gracious, you are not going to marry 
your brother.” 

“ My aunt would not transfer the guardianship to me 
unless I were qualified to undertake and exercise it prop- 
erly, according to her ideas, and that could be only by 
my becoming engaged to be married to a man of sub- 
stance.” 

“ Goodness help me ! what a startlement ! And who is 
the happy man to be ? Not Scantlebray, senior, I trust, 
whose wife is dying.” 

“ No — Captain Coppinger.” 

“ Cruel Coppinger ! ” Uncle Zachie put down his pipe 
so suddenly on the bench by him that he broke it. 
“ Cruel Coppinger ! never ! ” 

She said nothing to this, but rose and walked, with her 
head down, along the bank, and put her hands among the 
waving pink bunches of tamarisk bloom, sweeping the 
heads with her own delicate hand as she passed. Then 
she came back to the boat arbor and reseated herself. 

“ Dear me ! Bless my heart ! I could not have credited 
it,” gasped Mr. Menaida, “ and I had such different plans 
in my head — but there, no more about them.” 

“ I had to make my election whether to take him and 
qualify to become J amie’s guardian, or refrain, and then 
he would have been snatched away and imprisoned in 
that odious place again.” 


224 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ But, my dear Miss Judith — ” the old man was so agi- 
tated that he did not know what he was about ; he put the 
stick of tamarisk into his mouth in place of his pipe, and 
took it out to speak, put down his hand, iDicked up the 
bowl of his pipe, and tapped the end of the tamarisk 
spill with that ; “ mercy save me ! What a world we do 
live in. And I had been building for you a castle — not 
in Spain, but in a contiguous country — who’d have 
thought it ? And Cruel Coppinger, too ! Upon my soul 
I don’t want to say I am sorry for it, and I can’t find in 
my heart to say I’m glad.” 

“ I do not expect that you will be glad — not if you 
have any love for me.” 

The old man turned round, his eyes were watering and 
his face twitching. 

“ I have, Heaven knows ! I have — yes — I mean Miss 
Judith.” 

“ Mr. Menaida,” said the girl, “ you have been so kind, 
so considerate, that I should like to call you what every 
one else does — when speaking of you to one another — 
not to your face — Uncle Zachie.” 

He put out his hand, it was shaking, and caught hers. 
He put the ends of the fingers to his lips ; but he kept 
his face averted, and the water that had formed in his 
eyes ran down his cheeks. He did not venture to speak. 
He had lost command over his voice. 

“ You see, uncle, I have no one of whom to ask counsel. 
I have only aunt, and she — somehow — I feel that I can- 
not go to her, and get from her the advice best suited to 
me. Now papa is dead I am entirely alone, and I have 
to decide on matters most affecting my own life, and that 
of J amie. I do so crave for a friend who could give me 
an opinion — but I have no one, if you refuse.” 

He pressed her hand. 

“Not that now I can go back from my word. I have 
passed that to Aunt Dionysia, and draw back I may not ; 
but somehow, as I sit and think, and think, and try to 
screw myself up to the resolution that must be reached 
of giving up my hand and my whole life into the power 
of — of that man, I cannot attain to it. I feel like one 
who is condemned to cast himself down a precipice and 
shrinks from it, cannot make up his mind to spring, but 
draws back after every run made to the edge. Tell me — 
uncle— tell me truly, what do you think about Captain 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 225 

Coppinger ? What do you know about him ? Is he a 
very wicked man ? ” 

“ You ask me what I think, and also what I know,” said 
Mr. Menaida, releasing* her hand. “I know nothing, 
but I have my thoughts.” 

“ Then tell me what you think.” 

“ As I have said, I know nothing. I do not know 
whence he comes. Some say he is a Dane, some that he 
is an Irishman. I cannot tell, I know nothing, but I 
think his intonation is Irish, and I have heard that there 
is a family of that name in Ireland. But this is all guess- 
work. One thing I do know, he speaks French like a 
native. Then, as to his character, I believe him to be a 
man of ungovernable temper, who, when his blood is 
roused will stick at nothing. I think him a man of very 
few scruples. But he has done liberal things — he is 
open-handed, that all say. A hard liver, and with a 
rough tongue, and yet with some of the polish of a 
gentleman ; a man with the passions of a devil, but not 
without in him some sparks of divine light. That is 
what I think him to be. And if you ask me further, 
whether I think him a man calculated to make you happy 
— I say decidedly that he is not.” 

Barely before in his life had Mr. Menaida spoken with 
such decision. 

“ He has been kind to me,” said Judith. “ Very kind.” 

“ Because he is in love with you.” 

“ And gentle ” 

“ Have you ever done aught to anger him ? ” 

“ Yes. I threw him down and broke his arm and 
collar-bone.” 

“ And won his heart by so doing.” 

“ Uncle Zachie, he is a smuggler.” 

“ Yes — there is no doubt about that.” 

“ Do you suppose if I were to entreat him that he 
would abandon smuggling? I have already had it in 
my heart to ask him this, but I could not bring the re- 
quest over my lips.” 

“ I have no doubt if you asked him to throw up his 
smuggling that he would promise to do so. VTiether he 
would keep his promise is another matter. Many a girl 
has made her lover swear to give up gambling, and on 
that understanding has married him ; but I reckon none 
have been able to keep their husbands to the engage- 


226 


IJH THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


meut. Gambling, smuggling, and iDoaclnng, my dear, 
are in the blood. A man brings the love of adventure, 
the love of running a risk, into the world with him. If 1 
had been made by my wife to sw^ear when I married never 
to touch a musical instrument, I might out of love for 
her have sworn, but I could not have kept my oath. 
And you — if you vowed to keep your fingers from needle 
and thread, and saw your gown in rags, or your hus- 
band’s linen frayed — would find an irresistible itch in the 
finger ends to mend and hem, and you would do it, in 
spite of your vows. So with a gambler, a poacher, and a 
smuggler, the instinct, the passion is in them and is 
irresistible. Don’t impose any promise on Captain Cruel, 
it will not influence him.” 

“ They tell me he is a wrecker.” 

“ What do you mean by a wrecker ? We are all wreck- 
ers, after a storm, when a merchantman has gone to 
pieces on the rocks, and the shore is strewn with prizes. 
I have taken what I could, and I see no harm in it 
When the sea throws treasures here and there, it is a 
sin not to take them up and use them and be thankful.” 

“I do not mean that. I mean that he has been the 
means of luring ships to their destruction.” 

“ Of that I know nothing. Stories circulate when- 
ever there is a wreck not in foul weather or with a wind 
on shore. But who can say whether they be true or 
false “? ” 

“ And about that man, Wyvill. Did he kill him ? ” 

“ There also I can say nothing, because I know nothing. 
All that can be said about the matter is that the Prevent- 
ive man Wyvill was found at sea — or washed ashore 
without his head. A shark may have done it, and sharks 
have been found off our coast. I cannot tell. There is 
not a shadow of evidence that could justify an indict- 
ment. All that can be stated that makes against Cop- 
pinger is that the one is a smuggler, the other was a 
Preventive man, and that the latter was found dead and 
with his head off, an unusual circumstance, but not suf- 
ficient to show that he had been decapitated by any 
man, nor that the man who decapitated him was Cop- 
pinger.” 

Then Mr. Menaida started up : “ And — you sell your- 
self to this man for Jamie ? ” 

“ Yes, uncle, to make a man of Jamie,” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


227 


‘‘ On the chance, Judith, on the very doubtful chance 
of making a man of Jamie, you rush on the certainty of 
making a ruin of yourself. "That man — that Coppinger 
to be trusted with you ! A fair little vessel, richly 
laden, with silken sail, and cedar sides, comes skimmer- 
ing over the sea, and — Heaven forgive me if I judge 
wrongly — but I think he is a wrecker, enticing, con- 
straining you on to the reefs where you will break up, 
and all your treasures will — not fall to him — but sink ; 
and all that will remain of you will be a battered and 
broken hull, and a draggled discolored sail. I cannot — 
I cannot endure the thought.” 

“ Yet it must be endured, faced and endured by me.” 
said Judith. “ You are a cruel comforter. Uncle Zachie. 
I called you to encourage me, and you cast me down; to 
lighten my load, and you heap more on.” 

“ I can do no other,” gasped Mr. Menaida. Then he 
sprang back, with open mouth, aghast. He saw Cruel 
Coppinger on the other side of the hedge, he had put 
his hands to the tamarisk bushes, and thrust them apart 
and was looking through. 

“ Goldfish ! ” called Captain Coppinger, “ Goldfish, 
come ! ” 

Judith knew the voice and looked in the direction 
whence it came, and saw the large hands of Coppinger 
holding back the boughs of tamarisk, his dark face in 
the gap. She rose at once and stepped toward him. 

“ You are ill,” he said, fixing his sombre eyes on her. 

“I am not ill in body. I have had much to harass my 
mind.” 

“ Yes, that Wadebridge business.” 

“ What has sprung out of it ? ” 

“ Shall I come to you, or will you to me % — through the 
tamarisks ? ” 

“ As you will. Captain Coppinger.” 

“ Come, then — up on to the hedge and jump — I will 
catch you in my arms. I have held you there ere this.” 

“ Yes, you have taken me up, now must I throw ” 

She did not finish the sentence; she meant, must she 
voluntarily throw herself into his arms ? 

She caught hold of the bushes and raised herself to 
the top of the hedge. 

“ By Heaven ! ” said he. “ The tamarisk flowers have 
more color in them than your face,” 


228 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


She stood on the summit of the bank, the tamarisks 
rising" to her knees, waving in the wind about her. 
Must she resign herself to that man of whom she knew 
so little, whom she feared so greatly ? There was no 
help for it. She must. He held out his arms. She 
sprang, and he caught her. 

“ I have you now,” he said, with a laugh of triumph. 
“ You have come to me, and I will never give you up.” 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 


AMONG THE SAND-HEAPS. 

Coppinger held her in his arms, shook her hair out 
that it streamed over his arm, and looked into her up- 
turned face. “ Indeed you are light, lighter than when 
I bore you in my arms before ; and you are thin and 
white, and the eyes, how red. You have been crying. 
What ! this spirit, strong as a steel spring, so subdued 
that it gives way to weeping ! ” 

Judith’s eyes were closed against the strong light 
from the sky above, and against the sight of his face 
bent over hers, and the fire glint of his eyes, dark as a 
thundercloud and as charged with lightnings. And now 
there was a flashing of fire from them, of love and pride 
and admiration. The strong man trembled beneath his 
burden in the vehemence of his emotion. The boiling 
and paining of his heart within him, as he held the frail 
child in his arms, and knew she was to be his own, his 
own wholly, in a short space. It was for the moment to 
him as though all earth and sea and heaven were dis- 
solved with nebulous chaos, and the only life — the only 
pulses in the universe — were in him and the little creature 
he held to his breast. He looked into her face, down on 
her as Vesuvius must have looked down on lovely, marble, 
white Pompeii, with its gilded roofs and incense-scented 
temples, and restrained itself, as long as restrain its 
molten heart it could, before it poured forth its fires and 
consumed the pearly city lying in its arms. 

He looked at her closed eyelids with the long golden 
lashes resting on the dark sunken dip beneath, at the 
delicate mouth drawn as with pain, at the white temples 
in which slowly throbbed the blue veins, at the profu- 
sion of red-gold hair streaming over his arm and almost 
touching the ground. 

She knew that his eyes— on fire— were on her, and she 


230 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


dared not meet them, for there would be a shrinking 
from him, no responsive leap of flame from hers. 

“Shall I carry you about like this?” he asked. “I 
could and I would, to the world’s end, and leap with you 
thence into the unfathomed abyss.” 

Her head, leaning back on his arm, with the gold rain 
falling from it, exposed her long and delicate throat of 
exquisite purity of tint and beauty of modelling, and as 
it lay a little tuft of pink tamarisk blossom, brushed olf 
in her lap into his arms, and then caught in the light 
edging of her dress, at the neck. 

“ And you come to me of your own will ? ” he said. 

Then Judith slightly turned her head to avoid his 
eyes, and said, “ I have come — it was unavoidable. Let 
me down, that we may speak together.” 

He obeyed with reluctance. Then, standing before 
him, she bound up and fastened her hair. 

“ Look ! ” said he, and threw ojoen his collar. A ribbon 
was tied about his throat. “ Do you see this ? ” He 
loosed the band and held it to her. One delicate line of 
gold ran along the silk, fastened to it by threads at in- 
tervals. “ Your own hair. The one left with me when 
you first heard me speak of my heart’s wish, and you dis- 
dained me and went your way. You left me that one 
hair, and that one hair I have kept wound round my 
neck ever since, and it has seemed to me that I might 
still have caught my goldfish, my saucy goldfish that 
swam away from my hook at first.” 

Judith said calmly, “ Let us walk together somewhere 
— to St. Enodoc, to my father’s grave, and there, over 
that sand-heap we will settle what must be settled.” 

“I will go with you where you will. You are my 
Queen, I your subject — it is my place to obey.” 

“ The subject has sometimes risen and destroyed the 
Queen ; it has been so in France.” 

“ Yes, when the subject has been too hardly treated, 
too down-trodden, not allowed to look on and adore the 
Queen.” 

“ And,” said Judith further, “ let us walk in silence, 
allow me the little space between here and my father’s 
grave to collect my thoughts, bear with me for that short, 
distance.” 

“ As you will. I am your slave, as I have told you, and 
you my mistress have but to command.” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


231 


“ Yes, but the slave sometimes becomes the master, 
and then is all the more tyrannous because of his former 
servitude.” 

So they walked tog'ether, yet apart, from Polzeath to 
St. Enodoc, neither speaking, and it might have been a 
mourner’s walk at a funeral. She held her head down, 
and did not raise her eyes from the ground, but he con- 
tinued to gaze on her with a glow of triumph and exul- 
tation in his face. 

They reached at length the deserted church, sunken in 
the sands ; it had a hole broken in the wall under the 
eaves in the south, rudely barricaded, through which the 
sacred building might be entered for such functions as a 
marriage, or the first part of the funeral office that must 
be performed in a church. 

The roof was of pale gray slate, much broken, folding 
over the rafters like the skins on the ribs of an old 
horse past work. The church-yard was covered with 
plain sand. Gravestones were in process of being buried 
like those whom they commemorated. Some peeped 
above the sand, with a fat cherub’s head peering above 
the surface. Others stood high on the land side, but 
were banked up by sand toward the sea. Here the 
church -yard surface was smooth, there it was tossed with 
undulations, according as the sand had been swept over 
portions tenanted by the i^oor who were uncommemo- 
rated with head-stones, or over those where the well-to-do 
lay with their titles and virtues registered above them. 

There was as yet no monument erected over the grave 
of the Reverend Peter Trevisa, sometime rector of St. 
Enodoc. The mound had been turfed over and bound 
down with withes. The loving hands of his daughter 
had planted some of the old favorite flowers from the 
long walk at the rectory above where he lay, but they 
had not as yet taken to the soil, the sand ill agreed with 
them, and the season of the year when their translation 
had taken place dissatisfied them, and they looked for- 
lorn, drooping, and doubted whether they would make 
the struggle to live. 

Below the church lay the mouths of the Camel, blue 
between sand-hills, with the Doom Bar, a long and 
treacherous band of shifting sands in the midst. 

On reaching the graveyard Judith signed to Captain 
Coppinger to seat himself on a flat tombstone on the 


232 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


south side of her father’s grave, and she herself leaned 
against the headstone that marked her mother’s tornb. 

“ I think we should come to a thorough understanding,” 
she said, with composure, “that you may not expect 
of me what I cannot give, and know the reason why I 
give you anything. You call me Goldfish. Why ? ” 

“ Because of your golden hair.” 

“No — that was not what sprung the idea in your brain, 
it was something I said to you, that you and I stood to 
each other in the relation of bird .of prey to fish, be- 
longing to distinct modes of life and manner of think- 
ing, and that we could never be to one another in any 
other relation than that, the falcon and his prey, the 
flame and its fuel, the wreckers and the wrecked.” 

Coppinger started up and became red as blood. 

“ These are strange words,” he said. 

“It is the same that I said before.” 

“ Then why have you given yourself to me ? ” 

“ I have resigned myself to you, as I cannot help my- 
self any more than the fish can that is pounced on by 
the sea-bird, or the fuel that is enveloped by the flame, 
or the ship that is boarded by the wrecker.” 

She looked at him steadily ; he was quivering with 
excitement, anger, and disappointment. 

“ It is quite right that you should know what to ex- 
pect, and make no more demands on me that I am capa- 
ble of answering. You cannot ask of me that I should 
become like you, and I do not entertain the foolish 
thought that you could be brought to be like me — to see 
through my eyes, feel with my heart. My dead father 
lies between uS now, and he will ever be between us — he 
a man of pure life, noble aspirations, a man of books, of 
high principle, fearing God and loving men. What he 
was he tried to make me. Imperfectly, faultily, I follow 
him, but though unable to be like him, I strive after 
what he showed me should be my ideal.” 

“ You are a child. You will be a w^oman, and new 
thoughts will come to you.” 

“Will they be good and honorable and contented 
thoughts ? Shall I And those in your house ? ” 

Coppinger did not reply, his brows were drawn to- 
gether and his face became dark. 

“ Why, then, have you promised to come to me ? ” 

“Because of Jamie.” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


233 


He uttered an oath, and with his hands clenched the 
upper stone of the tomb. 

“I have promised my aunt that I will accept you, if 
you will suffer my poor brother to live where I live, 
and suffer me to be his protector. He is helpless and 
must have someone to think and watch for him. My 
aunt would have sent him to Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray’s 
asylum, and that would have been fatal to him. To save 
him from that I said that I would be yours, on the con- 
dition that my home should be his home. I liave passed 
my word to my aunt* and I will not go from it, but that 
does not mean that I have changed my belief that we 
are unfitted for each other, because we belong to different 
orders of being.” 

“This is cold comfort.”^ 

“ It is cold as ice, but it is all that I have to give to 
you. I wish to put everything plainly before you now, 
that there may be no misapprehension later, and you 
may be asking of me what I cannot give, and be angry 
at not receiving what I never promised to surrender.” 

“So! I am only accepted for the sake of that boy, 
Jamie.” 

“ It is painful for me to say what I do — as painful as 
it must be for you to hear it, but I cannot help myself. 
I wish to put all boldly and hardly before you before an 
irrevocable step is taken such as might make us both 
wretched. I take you for Jamie’s sake. Were his hapx)i- 
ness, his well-being not in the scale, I would not take 
you. I would remain free.” 

“ That is plain enough,” exclaimed Coppinger, setting 
his teeth, and he broke off a piece of the tombstone on 
which he was half sitting. 

“ You will ask of me love, honor, and obedience. I will 
do my best to love you — like you I do now, for you have 
been kind and good to me, and I can never forget what 
you have done for me. But it is a long leap from liking 
to loving, still I will try my best, and if I fail it will not 
be for lack of effort. Honor is another matter. That 
lies in your own power to give. If you behave as a good 
and worthy man to your fellows, and justly toward me, 
of course t shall honor you. I must honor what is de- 
serving of honor, and where I honor there I may come 
to love. I cannot love where I do not honor, so perhaps 
I may say that my heart is in your hands^ and that if 


234 


IN TEE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


those hands are clean and righteous in their dealings it 
may become yours some time. As to obedience — that 
you shall command. That I will render to you frankly 
and fully in all things lawful.” 

“You offer me an orange from which all the juice has 
been squeezed, a nut without a kernel.” 

“ I offer you all I have to offer. Is it worth your while 
having this ? ” 

“Yes!” said he angrily, starting up, “I will have 
what I can and wring the rest out of you, when once you 
are mine.” 

“ You never will wring anything out of me. I give 
what I may, but nothing will I yield to force.” 

He looked at her sullenly and said, “ A child in years 
with an old head and a stony heart.” 

“ I have always lived with my father, and so have 
come to think like one that is old,” said Judith, “and 
now, alone in the world, I must think with ripened 
wits.” 

“ I do not want that precocious, wise soul, if that be 
the kernel. I will have the shell — the glorious shell. 
Keep your wisdom and righteousness and piety for your- 
self. I do not value them a rush. But your love I will 
have.” 

“ I have told you there is but one way by which that 
may be won. But indeed. Captain Coppinger, you have 
made a great mistake in thinking of me. I am not 
suited to you to make you happy and content ; any more 
than you are suited to me. Look out for some girl more 
fit to be your mate.” 

“Of what sort? Come, tell me!” said Coppinger 
scornfully. 

“A fine, well-built girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with 
cheeks like apricots, lively in mood, with nimble tongue, 
good-natured, not bookish, not caring for brush or 
piano, but who can take a rough word and return it ; 
who will not wince at an oath, and shrink away at coarse 
words flung about where she is. All these things you 
know very well must be encountered by your wife, in 
your house. Did you ever read ‘ Hamlet,' Captain Cop- 
pinger ? ” 

He made no answer, he was plucking at the slab-cover 
of the tomb and grinding his heels into the sand. 

“ In ‘ Hamlet/ we read of a king poisoned by his queen, 


IN THE nOAll OF THE SEA. 


235 


who dipped the juice of cursed hebenon into his ears, 
and it curdled all his blood. It is the same with the 
sort of language that is found in your house when your 
seamen are there. I cannot endure it, it curdles my heart 
— choose a girl who is indifferent.” 

“ You shall not be subjected to it,” said Coppinger, “and 
as to the girl you have sketched^ — I care not for her — 
such as you describe are to be found thick as whortle- 
berries on a moor. Do you not know that man seeks in 
marriage not his counterpart but his contrast ? It is 
because you are in all things different from me that I 
love you.” 

“ Then will naught that I have said make you desist ? ” 

“ Naught.” 

“ I have told you that I take you only so as to be able 
to make a home for Jamie.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And that I do not love you and hardly think I can 
ever.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And still you will have me ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And that by taking me you wreck my life — spoil my 
happiness.” 

He raised his head, then dropped it again and said, 
«Yes.” 

She remained silent, also looking on the ground. Pres- 
ently she raised her head and said: “I gave you a 
chance, and you have cast it from you. I am sorry.” 

“ A chance ? What chance % ” 

“ The chance of taking a first step up the ladder in my 
esteem.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ Therefore I am sorry.” 

“ What is your meaning ? ” ■ 

“Captain Coppinger,” said Judith, firmly, looking 
straight into his dark face and flickering eyes, “ I am 
very, very sorry. When I told you that I accepted your 
offer only because I could not help myself, because I was 
a poor, feeble orphan, with a great responsibility laid on 
me, the charge of my unfortunate brother ; that I only 
accepted you for his sake when I told you that I did not 
love you, that our characters, our feelings were so differ- 
ent that it would be misery to me to become your wife 


236 


IN THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 


— that it would be the ruin of my life, then — had you 
been a man of generous soul, you would have said — I will 
not force myself upon you, but I will do one thing for 
you, assist you in protecting Jamie from the evil that 
menaces him. Had you said that I would have honored 
you, and as I said just now, where I honor, there I may 
love. But you could not think such a thought, no such 
generous feeling stirred you. You held me to my bond.” 

“ I hold you to your bond,” exclaimed Coppinger, in 
loud rage. “ I hold you, indeed. Even though you can 
neither love nor honor me, you shall be mine. You 
likened me to a bird of prey that must have its prey or 
die, to a fire — and that must have its fuel — to a wrecker, 
and he must have his wreck, I care not. I will have you 
as mine, whether you love me or not.” 

“ So be it, then,” said Judith, sadly. “ You had your 
opportunity and have put it from you. We understand 
each other. The slave is master — and a tyrant.” 


CHAPTEK XXXn. 

A DANGEEOUS GIFT. 

“ I do love a proper muddle, cruel bad, I do,” said 
Junap, and had what she loved, for the preparations for 
Judith’s marriag-e threw Mr. Menaida’s trim cottag-e into 
a “ ppper muddle.” There were the cakes to be baked, 
and for a while the interior of the house was pervaded by 
that most delicious aroma of baking bread superior to 
frangipani, jockey club, and wood violet. Then came 
the dusting, and after that the shaking and beating of the 
rugs and sofa and chairs. Then it was discovered that 
the ceilings and walls would be the better for white and 
color- wash. This entailed the turning out of every thing 
previously dusted and tidied and arranged. Neither Mr. 
Menaida nor Jump had any other idea of getting things 
into order than throwing all into a muddle in the hopes 
that out of chaos, exactness and order might spring. 

A dressmaker had been engaged and material pur- 
chased, for the fabrication of a trousseau. This naturally 
interested Jamie vastly, and Jump paid repeated visits 
to the dressmaker, whilst engaged on her work. On one 
such occasion she neglected the kitchen and allowed some 
jam to become burnt. On another she so interested the 
needlewoman and diverted her attention from her work, 
whilst cutting out that the latter cut out two right arms 
to the wedding gown. This involved a difficulty, as it 
was not practicable either to turn the one sleeve, and 
convert it into a left arm, nor to remove Judith’s left 
arm and attach it to the right side of her body, and so 
accommodate her to the gown. The mercer at Camel - 
ford was communicated with, from whom the material 
had been procured, but he was out of it, he however was 
in daily expectation of a consignment of more of the 
same stuff. A fortnight later he was able to supply the 
material, sufficient for a left sleeve, but unfortunately of 
a different color. The gown had to be laid aside till 


238 


m THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


some one could be found of Judith’s size and figure with 
two right arms, and also who wanted a wedding dress, 
and also would be disposed to take this particular one 
at half the cost of the material, or else to let the gown 
stand over till after the lapse of a century or thereabouts, 
when the fashion would prevail for ladies to wear sleeves 
of a different substance and color from their bodies and 
skirts. 

“ ’Taint a sort o’ a courtin’ as I’d give a thankee for,” 
said Jump. “There was Camelford goose fair, and 
whether he axed her to go wi’ him and pick a goose I 
can’t tell, but I know her never went. Then o’ Sundays 
they don’t walk one another out. And he doesn’t come 
arter her to the back garden, and she go to him, and no 
whisperings and kissings. I’ve listened a score o’ times 
a hoping and a wishing to see and hear the likes, and 
and never once as I’m a Christian and a female. There 
were my sister J ane, when she was going to be married, 
her got that hot and blazin’ red that I thought it were 
scarletine, but it was naught but excitement. But the 
young mistress, bless ’ee, her gets whiter and colder every 
day, and I’d say, if such a thing were possible, that her’d 
rather her never was a going to be married. But you see 
that aint in natur, leastways wi’ us females. I tell ’ee 
I never seed him once put his arm round her waist. If 
this be courtin’ among gentlefolks, all I say is preserve 
and deliver me from being a lady.” 

It was as Jump, in her vulgar way, put it. Judith 
alone in the house appeared to take no interest in the 
preparations. It was only after a struggle with her aunt 
that she had yielded to have the wedding in November. 
She had wished it postponed till the spring, but Cruel 
Coppinger and Aunt Dionysia were each for their several 
ends desirous to have it in the late autumn. Coppinger 
had. the impatience of a lover; and Miss Trevisa the 
desire to be free from a menial position and lodged in 
her new house before winter set in. She had amused 
herself over Othello Cottage ever since Judith had yield- 
ed her consent, and her niece saw little of her accord- 
ingly. 

It suited Coppinger’s interest to have a tenant for the 
solitary cottage, and that a tenant who would excite no 
suspicions, as the house was employed as a store for va- 
rious run goods, and it was understood between him and 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 239 

Miss Trevisa, that he was still to employ the garret for 
the purposes that suited him. 

Had Othello Cottage remained long unoccupied, it 
was almost certain to attract the attention of the Prevent- 
ive^ men, awake their suspicions, and be subjected to a 
visit. Its position was convenient, it was on the cliff of 
that cove where was the cave in which the smugglers^ 
boats were concealed. 

Copi3inger visited Polzeath and saw Judith whenever 
he came to Mr. Menaida’s house, but his wooing met 
with no response. She endured his attentions, shrink- 
ing from the slightest approach to familiarity, and 
though studiously courteous was never affectionate. It 
would take a heavy charge of self-conceit to have made 
the Captain blind to the fact that she did not love him, 
that in truth she viewed her approaching marriage with 
repugnance. Coppinger was a proud, but not a conceited 
man, and her coldness and aversion aroused his anger, 
for it galled his pride. Had he been a man of noble im- 
pulse, he would have released her, as she had already 
told him, but he was too selfish, too bent on carrying 
out his own will to think of abandoning his suit. 

Her lack of reciprocation did not abate his passion, it 
aggravated it. It enlisted his self-esteem in the cause, 
and he would not give her up, because he had set his 
mind upon obtaining her, and to confess his defeat 
would have been a humiliation insufferable to his 
haughty spirit. But it was not merely that he would 
not, it was also that he could not. Coppinger was a man 
who had, all his life long, done what he willed, till his 
will had become in him the mainspring of his existence, 
and drove him to execute his purposes in disregard of 
reason, safety, justice, and opposition. He would eat 
out his own furious heart in impotent rage, if his will 
were encountered by impossibility of execution. And 
he was of a sanguine temperament. Hitherto every op- 
position had been overthrown before him, therefore he 
could not conceive that the heart of a young girl, a mere 
child, could stand out against him permanently. For 
a while it might resist, but ultimately it must yield, 
and then the surrender would be absolute, uncondi- 
tional. 

Every time he came to see her, he came with hopes, 
almost with confidence, that the icy barrier would dis- 


240 


m THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


solve, but when in her presence the chill from it struck 
him, numbed his heart, silenced his tongue, deadened 
his thoughts. Yet no sooner was he gone from the 
house, than his pulses leaped, his brain whirled, and he 
was consumed with mortified pride and disappointed 
love. He could not be rough, passionate or imperious 
with her. A something he could not understand, cer- 
tainly not define, streamed from her that kept him at a 
distance and quelled his insolence. It was to him at 
moments as if he hated her ; but this hate was but the 
splutter of frustrated love. He recalled the words she 
had spoken to him, and the terms she had employed in 
speaking of the relation in which they stood to each 
other, the only relations to her conceivable in which 
they could stand to each other, and each such word was a 
spark of fire; a drop of fiaming phosphorus on his heart, 
torturing it with pain, and unquenchable. A word once 
spoken can never be recalled, and these words had been 
thrown red hot at him, had sunk in and continued to 
consume where they had fallen. He was but a rapacious 
bird and she the prey, he the fire and she the fuel, he the 
wrecker and she the wreck. There could be no recip- 
rocity between them, the bird in the talons of the hawk, 
rent by his beak could do no other than shiver and 
shriek and struggle to be free. The fuel could but ex- 
pect to be consumed to ashes in the flames; and the 
wrecked must submit to the wrecker. He brooded over 
these similes, he chafed under the conviction that there 
was truth in them, he fought against the idea that a re- 
turn of his love was impossible — and then his passion 
raged and roared up in a fury that was no other than 
hatred of the woman who could not be his in heart. 
Then, in another moment, he cooled down, and trusted 
that what he dreaded would not be. He saw before him 
the child, white as a lily, with hair as the anthers of the 
lily — so small, so fragile, so weak ; and he laughed to 
think that one such, with no experience of life, one who 
had never tasted love, could prove insensible to his de- 
vouring passion. The white asbestos in the flame glows, 
and never loses its delicacy and its whiteness. 

And Judith was, as Jump observed, becoming paler 
and more silent as her marriage drew on. The repug- 
nance with which she had viewed it instead of abating 
intensified with every day. She woke in the night with 


IN THE ROAH OF THE SEA. 241 

a start of horror, and a cold sweat poured from her. She 
clasped her hands over her eyes and buried her face in 
her pillow and trembled, so that the bed rattled. She 
lost all appetite. Her throat was contracted when she 
touched food. She found it impossible to turn her 
mind to the preparations that were being made for her 
wedding, she suffered her aunt to order for her what she 
liked, she was indifferent when told of the blunder made 
by the dressmaker in her wedding-gown. She could not 
speak at meals. When Mr. Menaida began to talk, she 
seemed to listen, but her mind was elsewhere. She re- 
sumed lessons with Jamie, but was too abstracted to be 
able to teach effectually. A restlessness took hold of 
her and impelled her to be out of doors and alone. Any 
society was painful to her, she could endure only to be 
alone ; and when alone, she did nothing save pluck at 
her dress, or rub her fingers one over the other — the 
tricks and convulsive movements of one on the point of 
death. 

But she did not yield to her aversion without an ef- 
fort to accustom herself to the inevitable. She rehearsed 
to herself the good traits she had observed in Copijin- 
ger, his kindness, his forbearance toward herself, she 
took cognizance of his efforts to win her regard, to af- 
ford her pleasure, his avoidance of everything that he 
thought might displease her. And when she knew he 
w^as coming to visit her, she strove with herself ; and 
formed the resolution to break down the coldnesss, and 
to show him some of that semblance of affection which 
he might justly expect. But it was in vain. No sooner 
did she hear his step, or the first words he uttered, no 
sooner did she see him, than she turned to stone, and 
the power to even feign an affection she did not possess 
left her. And when Coppinger had departed, there was 
stamped red hot on her brain the conviction that she 
could not possibly endure life with him. 

She prayed long and often, sometimes by her father’s 
grave, always in bed when lying wakeful, tossing from 
side to side in anguish of mind ; often, very often when 
on the cliffs looking out to sea, to the dark, leaden, sul- 
len sea, that had lost all the laughter and color of sum- 
mer. But prayer afforded her no consolation. The 
thought of marriage to such a man, whom she could 
not respect, whose whole nature was inferior to her own, 


242 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


was a thouglit of horror. She could have nerved herself 
to death by the most excruciating- of torments, but for 
this, not all the g-race of heaven could fortify her. 

To be his mate, to be capable of loving him, she must 
descend to his level, and that she neither could nor would 
do. His prey, his fuel, his wreck — that she must become, 
but she could be nothing else — nothing else. As the day 
of her marriage approached her nervous trepidation be- 
came so acute that she could hardly endure the least 
noise. A strange footfall startled her and threw her into 
a paroxysm of trembling. The sudden opening of a door 
made her heart stand still. 

When her father had died, poignant though her sor- 
row had been, she had enjoyed the full powers of her 
mind. She had thought about the necessary prepara- 
tions for the funeral, she had given orders to the servants, 
she had talked over the dear father to Jamie, she had wept 
his loss till her eyes were red. Not so now ; she could not 
turn her thoughts from the all-absorbing terror; she 
could not endure an allusion to it from anyone, least of 
all to speak of it to her brother, and the power to weep 
was taken from her. Her eyes were dry ; they burnt, but 
were unfilled by tears. 

When her father was dead she could look forward, 
think of him in paradise, and hope to rejoin him after 
having trustify executed the charge imposed on her by 
him. But now she could not look ahead. A shadow of 
horror lay before her, an impenetrable curtain. Her 
father was covering his face, was sunk in grief in his 
celestial abode ; he could not help her. She could not 
go to him with the same open brow and childish smile 
as before. ^ She must creep to his feet, and lay her head 
there, sullied by association with one against whom he 
had warned her, one whom he had regarded as the man 
that had marred his sacred utility, one who stood far be- 
low the stage of virtue and culture that belonged to his 
family and on which he had firmly planted his child. 
What was in her heart Judith could pour out before 
none ; certainly not before Aunt Dionysia, devoid of a 
particle of sympathy with her niece. Nor could she 
speak her trouble to Uncle Zachie, a man void of re- 
sources, kind, able for a minute or two to sympathize, 
but never to go deeply into any trouble and understand 
more of a wound than the fester on the surface. Besides^ 


TJV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


243 


of what avail to communicate the anguish of her heart 
to anyone, when nothing- could be done to alter the cir- 
cumstances. She could not now draw back. Indeed it 
never occurred to her to be possible to go back from her 
undertaking. To save Jamie from an idiot asylum she 
had passed her word to give her hand at the altar to 
Cruel Coppinger, and her word was sacred. Aunt Dio- 
nysia trusted her word. Coppinger held to it, knowing 
that she gave it on compulsion and reluctantly, yet he 
showed his perfect confidence in its security. 

“ My dear Judith,” said Mr. Menaida, “ I am so sorry 
about losing you, and what is more, losing Jamie, for 1 
know very well that when he is at the Glaze he will find 
plenty to amuse him without coming to see me, or any- 
how, coming to work with me.” 

“ I hoi3e not, dear uncle.” 

“ Yes, I lose a promising pupil.” Then turning to the 
boy, he said: “ Jamie, I hope you will not give up stuff- 
ing birds, or, if you have not the patience to do that, 
that you will secure the skins and prepare them for me.” 

“ Yes, I will,” said Jamie. 

“ Yes, yes, my dear boy,” said Menaida, “ but don’t 
you fancy I am going to trust you with arsenic for pre- 
paring tire skins. I shall give that to your sister and 
she will keep the supply, eh, will you not, Judith ?” 

“ Yes. I will take charge of it.” 

“ And let him have it as needed ; never more than is 
needed.” 

“ Why not % ” asked J amie. 

“Because it is a dangerous thing to have lying about.” 
Menaida ran into the workshop, and came back with a 
small tin box of the poison. “ Look here ! here is a little 
bone spoon. Don’t get the powder over your fingers. 
Why, a spoonful would make a man very ill, and two 
would kill him. So, Judith, I trust this to you. When 
Jamie has a skin to prepare he will go to you, and you 
will let him have only so much as he requires.” 

“Yes, uncle.” 

She took the little tin of arsenic and put it in her work- 
box, under the tray that contained reels and needles. 


CHAPTEE XXXin. 


HALF A MABEIAGE. 

One request Judith had made, relative to her mar- 
riage, and one only, after she had given way about the 
time when it was to take place, and this request con- 
cerned the place. She desired to be married, not in the 
parish church of S. Minver, but in that of S. Enodoc, in 
the yard of which lay her father and mother, and in 
which her father had occasionally ministered. 

It* was true that no great display could be made in a 
building half -filled with sand, but neither Judith nor 
Coppinger, nor Aunt Dionysia desired display,* and 
Jump, the sole person who wished that the wedding 
should be in full gala, was not consulted in the matter. 

November scowled over sea and land, perverting the 
former into lead and blighting the latter to a dingy 
brown. 

The wedding-day was sad. Mist enveloped the coast, 
wreathed the cliffs, drifted like smoke over the glebe, and 
lay upon the ocean, dense and motionless, like a mass of 
cotton -wool. Not a smile of sun, not a glimmer of skj , 
not a trace of outline in the haze overhead. The a^'x* 
was full of minute particles of moisture flying aimlessly, 
lost to all sense of gravity, in every direction. The mist 
had a fringe but no seams, and looked as if it were as 
unrendable as felt. It trailed over the soil, here lifting 
a ragged flock or tag of fog a few feet above the earth, 
there dropping it again and smearing water over all it 
touched. Vapor condensed on every twig and leaf, but 
only leisurely, and slowly dripped from the ends of 
thorns and leaves ; but the weight of the water on some 
of the frosted and sickly foliage brought the leaves 
down with it. Every stone in every wall was lined with 
trickles of water like snail crawls. The vapor pene- 
trated within doors, and made all articles damp, of what- 
ever sort they were. Fires were reluctant to kindle, 


IN TBE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


245 


cliimneys smoked. The grates and irons broke out into 
eruptions of rust, mildew appeared on walls, leaks in 
roofs. The slate floors became dark and moist. Forks 
and spoons adhered to the hands of those who touched 
them, and on the keys of Mr. Menaida’s piano drops 
formed. 

. What smoke did escape from a chimney trailed down 
the roof. Decomposed leaves exhaled the scent of de- 
cay. From every stack-yard came a musty odor of wet 
straw and hay. Stable- yards emitted their most fetid 
exudations that oozed through the gates and stained the 
roads. The cabbages in the kail-yards touched by frost 
announced that they were in decomposition, and the tur- 
nips that they were in rampant degeneration and rotten- 
ness. _ The very seaweed washed ashore impregnated 
the mist with a flavor of degeneration. 

The' new rector, the Eeverend Desiderius Mules had 
been in residence at St. Enodoc for three months. He 
had received but a hundred and twenty-seven pounds four 
and ninepence farthing for dilapidations, and was angry, 
declared himself cheated, and vowed he would never em- 
ploy the agent Cargreen any more. And a hundred and 
twenty-seven pounds four and ninepence farthing went 
a very little way in repairing and altering the rectory to 
make it habitable to the liking of the Eeverend Deside- 
rius. The Eeverend Peter Trevisa and his predecessors 
had been West Country men, and as such loved the sun, 
and chose to have the best rooms of the house with a 
southern aspect. But the Eeverend Desiderius Mules 
had been reared in Barbadoes, and hated the sun, and 
elected to have the best rooms of the house to look north. 
This entailed great alterations. The kitchen had to be 
converted into parlor, and the parlor into kitchen, the 
dining-room into scullery, and the scullery into study, 
and the library enlarged to serve as dining-room. All 
the down stairs windows had to be altered. Mr. Desi- 
derius Mules liked to have French windows opening to 
the ground. 

In the same manner great transformations were made 
in the garden. Where Mr. Peter Trevisa had built up 
and planted a hedge there Mr. Desiderius Mules 
opened a gate, and where the late rector had laid down 
a drive there the new rector made garden beds. In the 
same manner shrubberies were converted into lawns, and 


246 


IN THE UOAIt OF THE SEA. 


lawns into shrubberies. The pump was now of no ser> 
vice outside the drawing-room window ; it had to be re- 
moved to the other side of the house, and to serve the 
pump with water a new well had to be dug, and the old 
well that had furnished limpid and wholesome water was 
filled up. The site of the conservatory was considered 
the proper one for the well, and this entailed the de- 
struction of the conservatory. Removal was intended, 
with a new aspect to the north, as a frigidarium, but 
when touched it fell to pieces, and in so doing furnished 
Mr. Desiderius Mules with much comment on the im- 
position to which he had been subjected, for he had 
taken this conservatory at a valuation, and that valua- 
tion had been for three pounds seven and fourpence 
ha’penny, whereas its real value was, so he declared, 
three pounds seven and fourpence without the ha’penny 
at the end or the three pounds before. 

When the Reverend Desiderius Mules heard that 
Captain Coppinger and Judith Trevisa were to be mar- 
ried in his church, “ By Jove,” said he, they shall pay 
me double fees as extra parochial. I shall get that out 
of them at all events. I have been choused sufficiently.” 

A post-chaise from Wadebridge conveyed Judith, Miss 
Trevisa, Uncle Zachie, and Jamie from Polzeath. 

The bride was restless. At one moment she leaned 
back, then forward ; her eyes turned resolutely through 
the window at the fog. Her hands plucked at her veil 
or at her gloves ; she spoke not a word throughout the 
drive. Aunt Dionysia was also silent. Opjposite her 
sat Mr. Menaida in blue coat with brass buttons, white 
waistcoat outside a colored one, and white trousers 
tightly strapped. Though inclined to talk, he was un- 
able to resist the depressing influence of his vis-a-vis. 
Miss Trevisa,^ who sat scowling at him with her thin lips 
closed. Jamie was excited, but as no one answered him 
when he spoke he also lapsed into silence. 

When the churchyard gate of St. Enodoc was reached, 
Mr. Menaida jumped out of the chaise with a sigh of re- 
lief, and muttered to himself that, had he known what 
to expect, he would have brought his pocket-flask with 
him, and have had a nip of cognac on the way. 

A good number of sight-seers had assembled from 
Polzeath and St. Enodoc, and stood in the churchyard, 
magnified by the mist to gigantic size. Over the graves 


JiV' THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


247 


of drowned sailors were planted the figure-heads of 
wrecked vessels, and these in the mist might have been 
taken as the dead risen and mingling with the living to 
view this dreary marriage. 

The bride herself looked ghostlike, or as a waft of the 
fog, but little condensed, blown through the graveyard 
toward the gap in the church wall, and blown through 
that also within. 

That gap was usually blocked with planks from a 
wreck, supported by beams ; when the church was to be 
put in requisition, then the beams were knocked away, 
whereupon down clattered the boards and they were 
tossed aside. It had been so done on this occasion, and 
the fragments were heaped untidily among the graves 
under the church wall. The clerk-sexton had, indeed, 
considered that morning, with his hands in his pockets, 
whether it would be worth his while, assisted by the 
five bell-ringers, to take this accumulation or wreckage 
and pile it together out of sight, but he had thought 
that, owing to the fog, a veil would be drawn over the 
disorder, and he might be saved this extra trouble. 

Within the sacred building, over his boots in sand, 
stamped, and frowned, and paced, and growled the Rev- 
erend Desiderius Mules, in surplice, hood, and stole, very 
ill at ease and out of humor because the wedding-party 
arrived unpunctually, and he feared he might catch cold 
from the wind and fog that drifted in through the hole 
in the wall serving as door. 

The sand within was level with the sills of the win- 
dows ; it cut the tables of commandments in half ; had 
blotted away the majority of inhibitions against mar- 
riage within blood relationship and marriage kinship. 
The altar-rails were below the surface. The altar-table 
had been fished up and set against the east wall, not on 
this day for the marriage, but at some previous occasion. 
Then the sexton had placed two pieces of slate under 
the feet on one side, and not having found handy any 
other pieces, had thought that perhaps it did not 
matter. Consequently the two legs one side had 
sunk in the sand, and the altar-table formed an incline. 

A vast number of bats occupied the church, and by 
day hung like little moleskin purser from the roof. 
Complaints had been made of the disagreeableness of 
having these creatures suspended immediately over the 


248 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


head of the efficient, accordingly the sexton had knocked 
away such as were suspended immediately above the 
altar and step — a place where the step was, beneath the 
sand ; but he did not think it necessary to disturb^ those 
in other parts of the church. If they inconvenienced 
others, it was the penalty of curiosity, coming to see a 
wedding there. Toward the west end of the church some 
wooden pewtops stood above the sand, and stuck into a 
gimlet-hole in the top rail of one was a piece of holly, 
dry and brown as a chip. It had been put there as a 
Christmas decoration the last year that the church was 
used for divine worship, at the feast of Noel ; when that 
was, only the oldest men could remember. The sexton 
had looked at it several times with his hands in his 
pockets and considered whether it were worth while pull- 
ing his hands out and removing the withered fragment, 
and carrying it outside the church, but had arrived at 
the conclusion that it injured no one, and might there- 
fore just as well remain. 

There were fragments of stained glass in the windows, 
in the upper light of the perxDendicular windows saints 
and angels in white and gold on ruby and blue grounds. 
In one window a fragment of a Christ on the cross. But 
all were much obscured by cobwebs. The cobwebs, after 
having entangled many flies, caught and retained many 
particles of sand, became impervious to light and ob- 
scured the figures in the x)ainted glass. The sexton had 
looked at these cobwebs occasionally and mused whether 
it would be worth his while to sweep them down, but as 
he knew that the church was rarely used for divine of- 
fices, and never for regular divine worshij), he deemed 
that there was no crying necessity for their destruction. 
Life was short, and time might be better employed — to 
whit in talking to a neighbor in smoking a pipe, in 
drinking a pint of ale, in larruping his wife, in reading 
the paper. Consequently the cobwebs remained. 

Had Mr. Desiderius Mules been possessed of anti- 
quarian tastes, he might have occupied the time he was 
kept waiting in studying the bosses of carved oak that 
adorned the wagon-roof of the church, which were in 
some cases quaint, in the majority beautiful, and no two 
the same. And he might have puzzled out the meaning 
of three rabbits with only three ears between them form- 
ing a triangle^ or three heads united in one neck, a king 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


249 


a queen, a bishop and a monk, or of a sow suckling a 
dozen little pigs. 

But Mr. Desiderius Mules bad no artistic or archaeo- 
logical faculty developed in him. His one object on 
the present occasion was to keep draught and damp from 
the crown of his head, where the hair was so scanty as 
hardly to exist at all. He did not like to assume his hat 
in the consecrated building, so he stamped about in the 
sand holding a red bandanna handkerchief on the top of 
his head, and grumbling at the time he was kept wait- 
ing, at the Cornish climate, at the way in which he had 
been “ choused ” in the matter of dilapidations for the 
chancel of the church, at the unintelligible dialect of the 
people, and at a good many other causes of irritation, 
notably at a bat which had not reverenced his bald pate, 
when he ventured beyond the range of the sexton’s 
sweeping. 

Presently the clerk, who was outside, thrust in his 
head through the gap in the wall, and in a stage whis- 
per announced, “ They’s a-coming.” 

The Reverend Mules growled, “ There ought to be a 
right to charge extra when the parson is kept waiting — 
sixpence a minute, not a penny less. But we are choused 
in this confounded corner of the world in every way. 
Ha ! there is a mildew-spot on my stole — all come of 
this villainous damp.” 

In the tower stood five men, ready to pull the ropes 
and sound a merry peal when the service was over, and 
earn a guinea. They had a firkin of ale in a corner, 
with which to moisten their inner clay between each 
round. Now that they heard that the wedding party 
had arrived they spat on their hands and heaved their 
legs out of the sand. 

Through the aperture in the wall entered the bridal 
party, a cloud of fog blowing in with them and envelop- 
ing them. They stepped laboriously through the fine ^ 
sand, at this place less firm than elsewhere, having been ‘ 
dug into daily by the late rector in his futile efforts to 
clear the church. 

Mr. Mules cast a suspicious look into the rafters above 
him to see that no profane bat was there, and opened his 
book. 

. Mr. Menaida was to act as father to the bride, and 
there was no other bride’s-maid than Miss Trevisa. As 


250 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


they waded toward the alter, Judith’s strength failed, 
and she stood still. Then Uncle Zachie put his arm 
round her and half carried her over the sand toward the 
place where she must stand to give herself away. She 
turned her head and thanked him with her eyes, she 
could not speak. So deathly was her whiteness, so de- 
ficient in life did she seem, that Miss Trevisa looked at 
her with some anxiety, and a little doubt whether she 
would be able to go through the service. 

When Judith reached her place, her eyes rested on the 
sand. She did not look to her left side, she could hear 
no steps, for the sand muffled all sound of feet, but she 
knew by the cold shudder that thrilled through her, that 
Captain Copijinger was at her side. 

“ Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here — now 
then ord^r, if you please, and quiet, we are twenty -five 
minutes after time,” said Mr. Desiderius Mules. 

The first few words, seven in all were addressed to the 
wedding party, the rest to a number of men and women 
and children who were stumbling and plunging into 
the church through the improvised door, thrusting each 
other forward, with a “get along,” and “ out of the road,” 
all eager to secure a good sight of the ceremony, and 
none able to hurry to a suitable place because of the sand 
that impeded every step. 

“ Now then — I can’t stay here all day ! ” 

Mr. Mules sniffed and applied the bandanna to his 
nose, as an indication that he was chilled, and that this 
rheum would be on the heads of the congregation, were 
he made ill by this delay. 

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered,” he began again, 
and he was now able to proceed. 

“ Cruel,” said he in loud and emphatic tones, “ wilt 
thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live to- 
gether after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matri- 
mony ? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep 
her in sickness and in health ; and, forsaking all other, 
keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live ? ” 

The response of Coppinger went through the heart of 
Judith like a knife. Then the rector addressed her. For 
answer she looked up at him and moved her lips. He 
took her hand and placed it in that of Coppinger. It was 
cold as ice and quivering like an aspen leaf. As Captain 
Coppinger held it, it seemed to drag and become heavy 


m THE ROAR OE THE SEA. 


251 


in his hand, whilst he pronounced the words after the 
rector, matins: oath to take Judith as his own. Then 
the same words were recited to her, for her to repeat in 
order after the priest. She beg-an, she moved her lips, 
looked him pleadingly in the face, her head swam, the 
fog filled the whole church and settled between her and 
the rector. She felt nothing save the grip of Coppinger’s 
hand, and sank unconscious to the ground. 

“ Go forward,” said Cruel. Mr. Menaida and Aunt 
Dionysia caught Judith and held her up. She could 
neither speak nor stir. Her lips were unclosed, she 
seemed to be gasping for breath like one drowning. 

“ Go on,” persisted Cruel, and holding her left hand 
he thrust the ring on her fourth finger, repeating the 
words of the formula. 

“ I cannot proceed,” said the Keverend Desiderius. 

“ Then you will have to come again to-morrow.” 

“ She is unconscious,” objected the rector. 

“ It is momentary only,” said Aunt Dionysia ; “ be 
quick and finish.” 

Mr. Mules hesitated a moment. He had no wish to re- 
turn in like weather on another day ; no wish again to be 
kept waiting five and twenty minutes. He rushed at the 
remainder of the office and concluded it at a hand gallop. 

“ Now,” said he, “ the registers are at the rectory. 
Come there.” 

Coppinger looked at J udith. 

'"Not to-day. It is not possible. She is ill — faint. To- 
morrow. Neither she nor I nor the witnesses will run 
away. We will come to you to-morrow.” 

Uncle Zachie offered to assist Judith from the church. 

“ No,” said Cruel, peremptorily, “ she is mine now.” 

She was able with assistance to walk, she seemed to 
recover for a moment in the air outside, but again lapsed 
into faintness on being placed in the chaise. 

“ To Pentyre Glaze,” ordered Coppinger ; “ our home.” 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 


A BREAKFAST. 

“ She has been over-exerted, over-excited,” said Miss 
Trevisa. “ Leave her to recover ; in a few days she will 
be herself again. Kem ember, her father died of heart 
complaint, and though Judith resembles her mother 
rather than a Trevisa, she may have inherited from my 
brother just that one thing she had better have let him 
carry to his grave with him.” 

So Judith was given the little room that adjoined her 
aunt’s, and Miss Trevisa postponed for a week her mi- 
gration to Othello Cottage. 

Aunt Dionysia was uneasy about her niece ; perhaps 
her conscience did suffer from some qualms when she 
saw how Judith shrank from the union she had driven 
her into for her own selfish convenience. She treated 
her in the wisest manner, now she had brought her to 
the Glaze, for she placed her in her old room next her 
own, and left her there to herself. Judith could hear 
her aunt walking about and muttering in the adjoining 
chamber, and was content to be left alone to recover her 
composure and strength. 

Uncle Zachie and Jump were, however, in sore dis- 
tress ; they had made the trim cottage ready, had pre- 
pared a wedding breakfast, engaged a helping hand or 
two, and no one had come to partake. Nor was Mr. 
Desiderius Mules in a cheerful mood. He had been in- 
vited to the breakfast, and was hungry and cold. He 
had to wait while Mr. Menaida ran up to Pentyre to 
know whether any one was going to honor his board. 
While he was away the rector stamped about the parlor, 
growling that he believed he was about to be “ choused 
out of his breakfast. There was really no knowing what 
these people in this out-of-the-world corner might do.” 
Then he pulled off his boots and shook the sand out, 
rang for Jump, and asked at what hour precisely the 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. "JSS 

breakfast was to be eaten, and whether it was put on 
table to be looked at only. 

From Pentyre Glaze Mr. Menaida was not greatly 
successful in obtaining guests. He found some wild- 
looking men there in converse with Coppinger, men 
whom he knew by rumor to belong to a class that had 
no ostensible profession and means of living. 

Mr. Menaida had ordered in clotted cream, which would 
not keep sweet many days. It ought to be eaten at once. 
He wanted to know whether Coppinger, the bride. Miss 
Trevisa, anyone was coming to his house to consume the 
clotted cream. As Jamie was drifting about purpose- 
less, and he alone seemed disposed to accompany Uncle 
Zachie, the old gentleman carried him off. 

“ I s’pose I can’t on the spur of the moment go in and 
ask over St. Minver parson ? ” asked Menaida, dubiously, 
of the St. Enodoc parson. “ You see I daresay he’s hurt 
not to have had the coupling of ’em himself.” 

“ Most certainly not,” said Mr. Mules ; “ an appetite 
is likely to go into faintness unless attended to at once. 
I know that the coats of my stomach are honeycombed 
with gastric juice. Shall I say grace ? Another half- 
hour of delay will finish me.” 

Consequently but three persons sat down to a plentiful 
meal ; but some goose, cold, had hardly been served, 
when in came Mr. Scantlebray, the agent, with a cheery 
salutation of “ Hulloa, Menaida, old man ! What, eating 
and drinking “F I’ll handle a knife and fork with you, 
unasked. Beg pardon, Mr. Mules. I’m a rough man, 
and an old acquaintance of our good friend here. Hope 
I see you in the enjoyment of robust health, sir. Oh, 
Menaida, old man ! I didn’t expect such a thing as this. 
Now I begin to see daylight, and understand why I was 
turned out of the valuership, and why my brother lost 
this promising young pupil. Ah, ha! my man, you 
have been deprived of fun, such fun, roaring fun, by not 
being with my brother Scanty. Well, sir,” to Mr. Mules, 
“ what was the figure of the valuation % You had a queer 
man on your side. I pity you. A man I wouldn’t trust 
myself. I name no names. Now tell me, what did you 
get ? ” 

“ A hundred and twenty-seven pounds four and nine- 
pence farthing. Monstrous — a chouse.” 

“ As you say, monstrous. Why that chancel, show me 


254 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 


the builder who will contract to do that alone at a hun- 
dred and twenty-seven pounds ? And the repairs of the 
vestry — are they to be reckoned at four and ninepence 
farthing ? It is a swindle. I’d appeal. I’d refuse. You 
made a mistake, sir, let me tell you, in falling into cer- 
tain hands. Yes — I’ll have some goose, thank you.” 

Mr. Scantlebray ate heartily, so did the Reverend 
Desiderius, who had the honeycomb cells of his stomach 
coats to fill. 

Both, moreover, did justice to Mr. Menaida’s wine, they 
did not spare it ; why should they ? Those for whom the 
board was spread had not troubled to come to it, and 
they must make amends for their neglect. 

“ Horrible weather,” said the rector. “ I suppose this 
detestable sort of stuff of which the atmosphere is com- 
posed is the prevailing abomination one has to inhale 
throughout three-quarters of the year. One cannot see 
three yards before one.” 

“It’s bad for some and good for others,” answered 
Scantlebray. “ There’ll be wrecks, certainly, after this, 
especially if we get, as we are pretty sure to get, a wind 
ashore.” 

“ Wrecks ! ” exclaimed the Rector, “ and pray who pays 
the fees for drowned men I may be expected to bury ? ” 

“ The parish,” answered Uncle Zachie. 

“ Oh, half-a-crown a head,” said Mr. Mules, contempt- 
uously. 

“ There are other things to be had besides burial fees 
out of a wreck,” said Scantlebray ; “ but you must be 
down early before the coast-guard are there. Have you 
donkeys ? ” 

“ Donkeys ! What for ? ” 

“I have one, a gray beauty,” exclaimed Jamie ; “ Cap- 
tain Coppinger gave her to me.” 

“ Well, young man, then you pick up what you can, 
when you have the chance, and lade her with your find- 
ings. You’ll pick up something better than corpses, 
and make something more than burial half-crowns.” 

“ But why do you suppose there will be wrecks ? ” in- 
quired the rector of St. Enodoc. “ There is no storm.” 

“ No storm, certainly, but there is fog, and in the fog 
vessels coming up the Channel to Bristol get lost as to 
their bearings, get near our cliffs without knowing it, 
and then — if a wind from the west spring up and blows 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


255 


roug'li— they are done for, they can’t escape to the open. 
That’s it, old man. beg* your Reverence’s pardon, I 
mean, sir. When I said that such weather was bad for 
some and good for others you can understand me now — 
bad for the wrecked, good for the wreckers.” 

“ But surely you have no wreckers here % ” 

Mr. Scantlebray laughed. “Go and tell the bride- 
groom that you think so. I’ll let you into the knowl- 
edge of one thing ” — he winked over his glass — “ there’s 
a fine merchantman on her way to Bristol.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ Know ! Because she was sighted off St. Ives, and the 
tidings has run up the coast like fire among heather. I 
don’t doubt it that it has reached Hartland by this ; and 
with a thick fog like to-day there are a thousand hearts 
beating with expectation. Who can say ? She may be 
laden with gold-dust from Africa, or with tin from Barca, 
or with port from Oporto.” 

“ My boy Oliver is coming home,” said Mr. Menaida. 

“ Then let’s hope he is not in this vessel, for, old man, 
she stands a bad chance in such weather as this. There 
is Forth- quin, and there is Hayle Bay ready to receive 
her, or Doom Bar on which she may run, all handy for 
our peoiDle. Are you anything of a sportsman, sir ? ” 

“A little — but I don’t fancy there is much in this 
precious country — no cover.” 

“ What is fox-hunting when you come to consider — or 
going after a snipe or a partridge ? A fox ! it’s naught, 
the brush stinks, and a snipe is but a mouthful. My 
dear sir, if you come to live among us, you must seek your 
sport not on the land but at sea. You’ll find the sport 
worth something when you get a haul of a barrel of first- 
rate sherry, or a load of silver ingots. Why, that’s how 
Penwarden bought his farm. He got the money after a 
storm — found it on the shore out of the pocket of a dead 
man. Do you know why the bells of St. Enodoc are so 
sweet ? Because, so folks say, melted into them are in- 
gots of Peruvian silver from a ship wrecked on Doom 
Bar.” 

“I should like to get some silver or gold,” said 
Jamie. 

“ I daresay you would, and so perhaps you may if you 
look out for it. Go to your good friend. Captain Cop- 
pinger, and tell him what you want. He has made his 


S56 


7iV THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


pickings before now on shore and off wrecks, and has 
not given up the practice.” 

“But,” said Mr. Mules, “do you mean to tell me that 
you people in this benighted corner of the world live 
like sharks, upon whatever is cast overboard ? ” 

“ No, I do not,” answered Scantlebray. “ AVe have too 
much energy and intelligence for that. We don’t always 
wait till it is cast overboard, we go aboaj-d and take what 
we want.” 

“ What, steal ! ” 

“ I don’t call that stealing when Providence and a south- 
west wind throws a ship into our laps, when we put in 
our fingers and pick out the articles we want. AVhat are 
Porth-quin and Hayle Bay but our laps, in which lie the 
wrecks heaven sends us ? And Doom Bar, what is that 
but a counter on which the good things are spread, and 
those first there get the first share ? ” 

“And pray,” said Mr. Desiderius Mules, “have the 
owners of the vessels, the passengers, the captains, no 
objections to make ? ” 

“ They are not there. Don’t wait for our people. If 
they do — so much the worse for them.” Then Scantle- 
bray laughed. “ There’s a good story told of the Zenobia, 
lost four years ago. There was a lady on board. AA^hen 
she knew the vessel was on Doom Bar she put on all her 
jewelry, to escape Avifch it. But some of our people got 
to the wreck before she got off it, and one lobe of her 
ears got torn off.” 

“ Torn off ? ” 

“ Yes — in pulling the ear-rings off her.” 

“ But who pulled the ear-rings off her ? ” 

“ Our people.” 

“ Gracious heavens ! Were they not brought to jus- 
tice ? ” 

“AAlio did it? no one knew. What became of the 
jewelry ? no one knew. All that was known was that 
Lady Knighton — that was her name — lost her diamonds 
and the lobe of her right ear as well.” 

“ And it was never recovered ? ” 

“ What ! the lobe of her ear ? ” 

“No, the jewelry.” 

“ Never.” 

“ Upon my word I have got among a parcel of scoun- 
drels. It is high time that I should come and reform 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


257 


them. I’ll set to work at once. I’ll have St. Enodoc dug* 
out and restored, and I’ll soon put an end to this sort of 
thing*.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

“ You don’t know me. I’ll have a bazaar. I’ll have a 
ball in the Assembly Eooms at Y/adebridge. The church 
shall be excavated. I’m not going in there again with 
the bats, to have my boots filled with sand, I can tell you 
— everything shall be renovated and put to rights. I’ll 
see to it at once. I’ll have a pigeon shooting for the sake 
of my chancel — I daresay I shall raise twenty pounds by 
that alone — and a raffle for the font, and an Aunt Sally 
for the pulpit. But the ball will be the main thing, I’ll 
send and get the cpunty people to patronize. I’ll do it, 
and you barbarians in this benighted corner of the world 
shall see there is a man of energy among you.” 

“You’d best try your hand on a wreck. You’ll get 
more off that.” 

“ And I’ll have a bran pie for an altar-table.” 

“ You won’t get the parishioners to do anything for 
the restoration of the church. They don’t want to have 
it restored.” 

“ The Decalogue is rotten, I ran my umbrella through 
the Ten Commandments this morning. I’ll have a gypsy 
camp and fortune-telling to furnish me with new Com- 
mandments.” 

“ I’ve heard tell,” said Scantlebray, “ that at Ponghill, 
near Stratton, is a four-post bed of pure gold came off a 
wreck in Bude Bay.” * 

“ When I was in the North,” said the rector of St. Eno- 
doc, “ we had a savage who bit off the heads of rats, snap, 
skinned them, and ate them raw, and charged sixpence 
entrance ; but that was for the missionaries. I should 
hardly advocate that for the restoration of a church ; be- 
sides, where is the savage to be got ? We made twenty- 
seven pounds by that man, but expenses were heavy and 
swallowed up twenty -five; we sent two pounds to the 
missionaries.” 

Mr. Menaida stood up and went to the window. 

“ I believe the wind has shifted to the north, and we 
shall have a lightening of the fog after sunset.” 

* An exaggeration. The bed. of seventeenth century Italian work, 
is gilt. It is now in a small farmhouse. 


258 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Shall we not have a wreck ? I hope there’ll be one,” 
said Jamie. 

“ What is the law about wreckage, Menaida, old man ? ” 
asked Scantlebray, also coming to the window. 

“ The law is iDlain enough. No one has a right to 
goods come to land ; he who finds may claim salvage — 
naught else ; and any persons taking goods cast ashore, 
which are not legal wreck, may be punished.” 

“And,” said Scantlebray, “what if certain persons 
give occasion to a ship being wrecked, and then plun- 
dering the wreck ? ” 

“ There the law is also plain. The invading and rob- 
bing of a vessel, either in distress or wrecked and the 
putting forth of false lights in order to bring a vessel 
into danger, are capital felonies.” 

Scantlebray went to the table, took up a napkin, 
twisted it and then flung it round his neck, and hung 
his head on one side. 

“ What — this, Menaida, old man ? ” 

Uncle Zachie nodded. 

“ Come here, Jim, my boy, a word with you outside.” 
Scantlebray led Jamie into the road. “ There’s been a 
shilling owing you for some time. We had roaring fun 
about it once. Here it is. Now listen to me. Go to 
Pentyre, you want to find gold-dust on the shore, don’t 
you % ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Or bars of silver ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, beg Captain Coppinger, if he is going to have 
a Jack o’ Lantern to-night, to let you be the Jack. Do 
you understand? and mind — not a word about me. Then 
gold-dust and bars of silver and purses of shillings. 
Mind you ask to be Jack o’ Lantern. It is fun. Such 
fun. Boaring fun.” 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

JACK o’ LANTERN. 


Evening closed in ; Judith had been left entirely to 
herself. She sat in the window, looking- out into the 
mist and watching the failing of the light. Sometimes 
she opened the casement and allowed the vapor to blow 
ill like cold steam, then became chilled, shivered, and 
closed it again The wind was rising and piped about 
the house, piped at her window. Judith, sitting there, 
tried with her hand to find the crevice through which 
the blast drove, and then amused herself with playing 
with her finger-tops on the openings and regulating the 
whistle so as to form a tune. She heard frequently Cop- 
pinger’s voice in conversation, sometimes in the hall, 
sometimes in the court-yard, but could not catch what 
was spoken. She listened, with chddish curiosity, 
to the voice that was now that of her lord and hus- 
band, and endeavored to riddle out of it some an- 
swer to her questions as to what sort of a master he 
would prove. She could not comprehend him. She 
had heard stories told of him that made her deem 
him the worst of men, remorselesss and regardless of 
others, yet toward her he had proved gentle and con- 
siderate. What, for instance, could be more deli- 
cate and thoughtful than his behavior to her at this 
very time ? Feeling that she had married him with re- 
luctance, he had kept away from her and suffered her to 
recover her composure without affording her additional 
struggle. A reaction after the strain on her nerves set 
in ; the step she had dreaded had been taken, and she 
was the wife of the man she feared and did not love. 
The suspense of expectation was exchanged for the 
calmer grief of retrospect. 

The fog all day had been white as wool, and she had 
noticed how parcels of vapor had been caught and en- 
tangled in the thorn bushes as the fog swept by, very 
much as sheep left flocks of their fleece in the bushes 


260 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


when they broke out of a field. Now that the day set, 
the vapor lost its whiteness and became ash g’ray, but it 
was not as dense as it had been, or rather it was com- 
pacted in places into thick masses with clear tracts be- 
tween. The sea was not visible, nor the cliffs, but she 
could distinguish out-buildings, tufts of furze and 
hedges. The wind blew much stronger, and she could 
hear the boom of the waves against the rocks, like the 
throbbing of the unseen heart of the world. It was louder 
than it had been. The sound did not come upon the 
wind, for the fog that muffled all objects from sight, 
muffled also all sounds to the ear, but the boom came 
from the vibration of the land. The sea flung against 
the coast-line shook the rocks, and they quivered for a 
long distance inland, making every wall and tree quiver 
also, and the sound of the sea was heard not through 
the ears but through the soles of the feet. 

Miss Trevisa came in. 

“ Shall I light you a pair of candles, Judith ? ” 

“ I thank you, hardly yet.” 

“ And will you not eat ? ” 

“ Yes, presently, when supper is served.” 

“ You will come down-stairs ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I am glad to hear that.” 

“ Aunt, I thought you were going to Othello Cottage 
the day I came here.” 

“Captain Coppinger will not suffer me to leave at 
once till you have settled down to your duties as mis- 
tress of the house.” 

“ Oh, auntie ! I shall never be able to manage this 
large establishment.” 

“ Why not ? You managed that at the rectory.” 

“ Yes, but it was so different.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ My dear papa’s requirements were so simple, and so 
few, and there were no men about except old Balhachet, 
and he was a dear, good old humbug. Here, I don’t 
know how many men there are, and who belong to the 
house, and who do not. They are in one day and out 
the next— and then Captain Coppinger is not like my 
own darling papa.” 

“ No, indeed, he is not. Shall I light the candles? I 
have something to show you.” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


2G1 


“ As you will, aunt.” 

Miss Trevisa went into lier room and fetched a light, 
and kindled the two candles that stood on Judith’s 
dressing-table. 

“ Oh, aunt ! not three candles.” 

“ Why not ? We shall need light.” 

“ But three candles together bring ill-luck ; and we 
have had enough already.” 

“ Pshaw ! Don’t be a fool. I want light, for I have 
something to show you.” 

She opened a small box and drew forth a brooch and 
earrings that flashed in the rays of the candle. 

“ Look, child ! they are yours. Captain Coppinger has 
given them to you. They are diamonds. See — a butter- 
fly for the breast, and two little butterflies for the ears.” 

“ Oh, auntie ! not for me. I do not want them.” 

“ This is ungracious. I daresay they cost many hun- 
dreds of pounds. They are diamonds.” 

Judith took the brooch and earrings in her hand ; they 
sparkled. The diamonds were far from being brilliants, 
they were of good size and purest water. 

“ I really do not want to have them. Persuade Cap- 
tain Coppinger to return them to the jeweller, it is far 
too costly a gift for me, far — far — I should be happier 
without them.” Then, suddenly — “ I do not know that 
they have been bought ? Oh, Aunt Dunes, tell me truly. 
Have they been bought ? I think jewellers always send 
out their goods in leather cases, and there is none such 
for these. And see — this earring — the gold is bent, as 
if pulled out of shape. I am sure they have not been 
bought. Take them back again, I pray you.” 

“ You little fool ! ” said Miss Trevisa, angrily. “ I will 
do nothing of the kind. If you refuse them — then take 
them back yourself. Captain Coppinger performs a 
generous and kind act that costs him much money, and 
you throw his gift in his face, you insult him. Insult 
him yourself with your suspicions and refusals -- you 
have already behaved to him outrageously. I will do 
nothing for you that you ask. Your father put on me a 
task that is hateful, and I wish I were clear of it.” 

Then she bounced out of the room, leaving her candle 
burning along with the other two. 

A moment later she came back hastily and closed Ju- 
dith’s shutters. 


262 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Oh, leave them open,” pleaded J udith. “ I shall like 
to see how the night goes — if the fog clears away.” 

“ No — I will not,” answered Miss Trevisa, roughly. 
“ And mind you. These shutters remain shut, or your 
candles go out. Your window commands the sea, and 
the light of your window must not show.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because should the fog lift, it would be seen by 
vessels.” 

“ Why should they not see it ? ” 

“ You are a fool. Obey, and ask no questions.” 

Miss Trevisa put up the bar and then retired with 
her candle, leaving Judith to her own thoughts, with 
the diamonds on the table before her. 

And her thoughts were reproachful of herself. She 
was ungracious and perhaps unjust. Her husband had 
sent her a present of rare value, and she was disposed to 
reject it, and charge him with not having come by the 
diamonds honestly. They were not new from a jeweller, 
but what of that ? Could he afford to buy her a set at 
the price of some hundreds of pounds ? And because he 
had not obtained them from a jeweller, did it follow that 
he had taken them unlawfully ? He might have picked 
them up on the shore, or have bought them from a man 
who had. He might have obtained them at a sale in 
the neighborhood. They might be family jewels, that 
had belonged to his mother, and he was showing her 
the highest honor a man could show a woman in asking 
her to wear the ornaments that had belonged to his 
mother. 

He had exhibited to her a store-room full of beautiful 
things, but these might be legitimately his, brought 
from foreign countries by his ship the Black Prince. It 
was possible that they were not contraband articles. 

Judith opened her door and went down-stairs. In the 
hall she found Coppinger with two or three men, but 
the moment he saw her he started up, came to meet her, 
and drew her aside into a parlor, then went back into 
the hall and fetched candles. A fire was burning in 
this room, ready for her, should she condescend to use it. 

“ I hope I have not interrupted you,” she said, timidly. 

“ An agreeable interruption. At any time you have 
only to show yourself and I will at once come to you, 
and never ask to be dismissed.” 


J2V THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


263 


She knew that this was no empty compliment, that 
he meant it from the depth of his heart, and was sorry 
that she could not respond to an affection so deep and 
so sincere. 

“ You have been very good to me — more good than I 
deserve,” she said, standing by the fire with lowered 
eyes, “ I must thank you now for a splendid and beauti- 
ful present, and I really do not know how to find words 
in which fittingly to acknowledge it.” 

“You cannot thank and gratify me better than by 
wearing what I have given you.” 

“ But when ? Surely not on an ordinary evening ? ” 

“ No — certainly. The Eector has been up this after- 
noon and desired to see you, he is hot on a scheme for a 
public ball to be given at Wadebridge for the restoration 
of his church, and he has asked that you will be a pa- 
troness.” 

“ I — oh — I ! — after my father’s death 1 ” 

“ That was in the late spring, and now it is the early 
winter, besides, now you are a married lady — and was 
not the digging out and restoring of the church your 
father’s strong desire % ” 

“ Yes — but he would never have had a ball for such a 
purpose.” 

“ The money must be raised somehow. So I prom- 
ised for you. You could not well refuse — he was impa- 
tient to be off to Wadebridge and secure the assembly 
rooms.” 

“ But — Captain Coppinger ” 

“ Captain Coppinger ? ” 

Judith colored. “ I beg your pardon — I forgot. And 
now — I do not recollect what I was going to say. It 
matters nothing. If you wish me to go I will go. If 
you wish me to wear diamond butterflies I will wear 
them.” 

“ I thank you.” He held out his hands to her. 

She drew back slightly and folded her palms as though 
praying. “ I will do much to please you, but do not 
press me too greatly. I am strange in this house, 
strange in my new situation ; give me time to breathe 
and look round and recover my confidence. Besides, we 
are only half -married so far.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ I have not signed the register,” 


264 Ilf THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 

“ No, but that shall be clone to-morrow.” 

“ Yes, to-morrow — but that gives me breathing time. 
You will be patient and forbearing with me.” She put 
forward her hands folded and he put his outside them 
and pressed them. The flicker of the Are lent a little 
color to her cheeks and surrounded her head with an 
aureole of spun gold. 

“ Judith, I will do anything you ask. I love you with 
all my soul, past speaking. I am your slave. But do 
not hold me too long in chains, do not tread me too 
ruthlessly under foot.” 

“ Give me time,” she pleaded. 

“ I will give you a little time,” he answered. 

Then she withdrew lier hands from between his and 
sped up -stairs, leaving him looking into the fire with 
troubled face. 

When she returned to her room the candles were 
still burning, and the diamonds lay on the dressing- 
table where she had left them. She took the brooch and 
earrings to return them to their box, and then noticed for 
the first time that they were wrapped in paper, not in 
cotton-wool. She tapped at her aunt’s door, and enter- 
ing asked if she had any cotton- wool that she could spare 
her. 

“ No, I have not. What do you want it for ? ” 

“ For the jewelry. It cannot have come from a shop, 
as it was wrapped in paper only.” 

“ It will take no hurt Wrap it in paper again.” 

“ I had rather not, auntie. Besides, I have some cot- 
ton-wool in my work-box.” 

“ Then use it.” 

“ But my work-box has not been brought here. It is 
at Mr. Menaida’s.” 

“ You can fetch it to-morrow.” 

“ But I am lost without my needles and thread. Be- 
sides, I do not like to leave my work-box about. I will 
go for it. The walk will do me good.” 

“ Nonsense, it is falling dark.” 

“ I will get Uncle Zachie to walk back with me. I 
must have my work-box. Besides, the fresh air will do 
me good, and the fog has lifted.” 

“ As you will, then.” 

So Judith put on her cloak and drew a hood over 
her head and went back to Polzeath. She knew the way 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


265 


perfectly, there was no danger, night had not closed in. 
It would be a pleasure to her to see the old bird-stuffer’s 
face again, and she wanted to find Jamie. She had not 
seen him nor heard his voice, and she supposed he must 
be at Polzeath. 

On her arrival at the double cottage, the old fellow 
was delighted to see her, and to see that she had recov- 
ered from the distress and faintness of the morning suf- 
ficiently to be able to walk back to his house from her 
new home. Her first question was after Jamie. Uncle 
Zachie told her that J amie had breakfasted at his table, 
but he had gone away in the afternoon and he had seen 
no more of him. The fire was lighted, and Uncle Zachie 
insisted on Judith sitting by it with him and talking 
over the events of the day, and on telling him that she 
was content with her position, reconciled to the change 
of her state. 

She sat longer with him than she had intended, listen- 
ing to his disconnected chatter, and then nothing would 
suffice him but she must sit at the piano and play 
through his favorite pieces. 

“ Eemember, Judith, it is the last time I shall have you 
here to give me this pleasure.” 

She could not refuse him his request, especially as he 
was to walk back to Pen tyre with her. Thus time passed, 
and it was with alarm and self-reproach that she started 
up on hearing the clock strike the half -past, and learned 
that it was half -past nine, and not half-past eight, as she 
supposed. 

As she now insisted on departing, Mr. Menaida put on 
his hat. 

Shall we take a light ? ” he asked, and then said : “ No, 
we had better not. On such a night as this a moving 
light is dangerous.” 

“ How can it be dangerous ? ” asked Judith. 

“ Not to us, my dear child, but to ships at sea. A sta- 
tionary light might serve as a warning, but a moving 
light misleads. The captain of a vessel, if he has lost his 
bearings, as is like enough in the fog, as soon as the mist 
rises, would see a light gliding along and think it was 
that of a vessel at sea, and so make in the direction of the 
light in the belief that there was open water, and so run 
directly on his destruction.” 

“ Oh; no, no, Uncle, we will not take a light/’ 


266 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Mr. Menaida and Juditli went out togretlier, she with 
her workbox under her arm, he with his stick, and her 
hand resting- on his arm. The night was dark, very dark, 
but the way led for the most part over down, and there 
was just sufficient light in the sky for the road to be dis- 
tinguishable. It would be in the lane, between the walls 
and where overhung by thorns, that the darkness w^ould 
be most profound. The wind was blowing strongly and 
the sound of the breakers came on it now, for the cloud 
had lifted off land and sea, though still hanging low. 
Very dense overhead it could not be, or no light would 
have pierced the vaporous canopy. 

Uncle Zachie and Judith walked on talking together, 
and she felt cheered by his presence, when all at once 
she stopped, pressed his arm, and said : 

“ Oh, do look, uncle ! What is that light ? ” 

In the direction of the cliffs a light was distinctly visi- 
ble, now rising, now falling, observing an unevenly un- 
dulating motion. 

“ Oh, uncle ? It is too dreadful. Some foolish person 
is on the downs going home with a lantern, and it may 
lead to a dreadful error, and a wreck.” 

“ I hope to heaven it is only what you say.” 

“ What do you mean % ” 

“ That it is not done wilfully.” 

“Wilfully!” 

“ Yes, with the purpose to mislead. Look. The move- 
ment of the light is exactly that of a ship on a rolling 
sea.” 

“ Uncle, let us go there at once and stop it.” 

“ I don’t know, my dear ; if it be done by some unprin- 
cipled ruffian he would not be stopped by us.” 

“ It must be stopped. And, oh, think ! you told me that 
your Oliver is coming home. Think of him.” 

“ We will go.” 

Mr. Menaida was drawn along by Judith in her eager- 
ness. They left the road to Pentyre, and struck out over 
the downs, keeping their eyes on the light. The distance 
was deceptive. It seemed to have been much nearer than 
they found it actually to be. 

“ Look ! it is coming back I ” exclaimed Judith. 

“ Yes, it is done wilfully. That is to give the appear- 
ance of a vessel tacking up Channel. Stay behind, Judith. 
J will go on/’ 


IN TBE ROAR OF THE SEA. 267 

“ No. I will go with you. You would not find me again 
in the darkness if we parted.” 

“ The light is coming this way. Stand still. It will 
come directly on us.” 

They drew up. Judith clung to Uncle Zachie’s side, her 
heart beating with excitement, indignation, and anger. 

“ The lantern is fastened to an ass’s head,” said Uncle 
Zachie ; “ do you see how as the creature moves his head 
the light is swayed, and that with the rise and fall in the 
land it looks as though the rise and fall were on the sea. 
I have my stick. Stand behind me, Judith.” 

But a voice was heard that made her gasp and clasp 
the arm of Uncle Zachie the tighter. 

Neither spoke. 

The light approached. They could distinguish the 
lantern, though they could not see what bore it ; only — 
next moment something caught the light — the ear of a 
donkey thrust forward. 

Again a voice, that of some one urging on the ass. 

Judith let go Menaida’s arm, sprang forward with a cry : 
“Jamie ! Jamie ! what are you doing ? ” 

In a moment she had wrenched the lantern from the 
head of the ass, and the creature, startled, dashed away 
and disappeared in the darkness. Judith put the light 
under her cloak. 

“ Oh, Jamie ! Jamie ! Why have you done this ? Who 
ever set you to this wicked task ? ” 

“ I am Jack o’ Lantern,” answered the boy. “ Ju ! now 
my Neddy is gone.” 

“ Jamie, who sent you out to do this ? Answer me.” 

“ Captain Coppinger ! ” 

Judith walked on in silence. Neither she nor Uncle 
Zachie spoke, only Jamie whimpered and muttered. 

Suddenly they were surrounded, and a harsh voice 
exclaimed : 

“In the king’s name. We have you now— showing 
false lights.” 

Judith hastily slung the lantern from beneath her 
cloak, and saw that there were several men about her, 
and that the speaker was Mr. Scantlebray. ^ 

The latter was surprised when he recognized her. 

“ MTiat ! ” he said, “ I did not expect this— pretty 
quickly into your apprenticeship. What brings you 
here ? And you, too, Menaida, old man ? ” 


268 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“Nothing simpler,” answered Uncle Zachie. “I am 
accompanying Mrs. Coppinger back to the Glaze.” 

“ What, married in the morning and roving the downs 
at night % ” 

“ I have been to Polzeath after my workbox — here it 
is,” said Judith. 

“ Oh, you are out of your road to Pentyre — I suppose 
you know that,” sneered Scantlebray. 

“ Naturally,” replied Mr. Menaida. “ It is dark enough 
for any one to stray. Why ! you don’t suspect me, do 
you, of showing false lights and endeavoring to wreck 
vessels ! That would be too good a joke — and the 
offence, as I told you — capital.” 

Scantlebray uttered an oath and turned to the men 
and said : “ Captain Cruel is too deep for us this time. 
I thought he had sent the boy out with the ass — instead 
he has sent his wife— a wife of a few hours, and never 
told her the mischief she was to do with the lantern — 
hark ! ” 

Prom the sea the boom of a gun. 

All stood still as if rooted to the spot. 

Then again the boom of a gun. 

“There is a wreck!” exclaimed Scantlebray. “I 
thought so — and you. Mistress Orphing, you’re guilty.” 
He turned to the men. “ We can make nothing of this 
affair with the lantern. Let us catch the sea- wolves fall- 
ing on their prey.” 


CHAPTEK XXXVI. 


THE SEA-WOLYES. 

On the Doom Bar. 

That very merchantman was wrecked, over which so 
many Cornish mouths had watered, ay, and Devonian 
mouths also, from the moment she had been sighted at 
St. Ives. 

She had been entangled in the fog, not knowing where 
she was, all her bearings lost. The wind had risen, and 
when the day darkened into night the mist had lifted in 
cruel kindness to show a false glimmer, that was at once 
taken as the light of a ship beating up the Channel. 
The head of the merchantman was put about, a half- 
reefed topsail spread, and she ran on her destruction. 
With a crash she was on the bar. The great bowlers 
that roll without a break from Labrador rushed on 
behind, beat her, hammered her farther and farther into 
the sand, surged uj) at each stroke, swept the decks with 
mingled foam and water and spray. 

The main-mast went down with a snap. Bent with 
the sail, at the jerk, as the vessel ran aground, it broke 
and came down — top -mast, rigging, and sail, in an envel- 
oping, draggled mass. From that moment the captain’s 
voice w^as no more heard. Had he been struck by the 
falling mast and stunned or beaten overboard ? or did 
he lie on deck enveloped and smothered in wet sail, or 
had he been caught and strangled by the cordage ? None 
knew, none inquired. A wild panic seized crew and 
passengers alike. The chief mate had the presence of 
mind to order the discharge of signals of distress — but 
the order was imperfectly carried out. A flash, illumi- 
nating for a second the glittering froth and heaving sea, 
then a boom — almost stunned by the roar of the sea, and 
the screams of women and oaths of sailors, and then 
panic laid hold of the gunner also and he deserted his 
post. 


270 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


The word had gone round, none knew from whom, that 
the vessel had been lured to her destruction by wreckers, 
and that in a few minutes she would be boarded by these 
wolves of the sea. The captain, who should have kept 
order, had disappeared, the mate was disregarded, there 
was a general sauve qui pent. A few women were on 
board. At the shock they had come on deck, some with 
children, and the latter were wailing and shrieking with 
terror. The women implored that they might be saved. 
Men passengers ran about asking what was to be done, 
and were beaten aside and cursed by the frantic sailors. 
A Portuguese nun was ill with sea-sickness, and sank on 
the deck like a log, crying to St. Joseph between her 
paroxysms. One man alone seemed to maintain his self- 
possession, a young man, and he did his utmost to soothe 
the excited women and abate their terrors. He raised 
the prostrate nun and insisted on her laying hold of a 
rope, lest in the swash of the water she should be carried 
overboard. He entreated the mate to exert his authority 
and bring the sailors to a sense of their duty, to save 
the women instead of escaping in the boat, regardful of 
themselves only. 

Suddenly a steady star, red in color, glared out of the 
darkness, and between it and the wreck heaved and 
tossed a welter of waves and foam. 

“ There is land,” shouted the mate. 

“ And that shines just where that light was that led 
us here,” retorted a sailor. 

The vessel heeled to one side, and shipped water fore 
and aft, over either rail, with a hiss and heave. She 
plunged, staggered, and sank deeper into the sand. 

A boat had been lowered and three men were in it, 
and called to the women to be sharp and join them. 
But this was no easy matter, for the boat at one moment 
leaped up on the comb of a black wave, and then sank in 
its yawning trough, now was close to the side of the 
ship, and then separated from it by a rift of water. The 
frightened women were let down by ropes, but in their 
bewilderment missed their opportunity when the boat 
was under them, and some fell into the water, and had 
to be dragged out, others refused to leave the wreck and 
risk a leap into the little boat. Nothing would induce 
the sick nun to venture overboard. She could not un- 
derstand English ; the young passenger addressed her 


IN THE ROAR OE THE SEA. 


271 


in Portuguese, and finally, losing all patience and finding 
that precious time was wasted in arguing with a poor 
creature incapable of reasoning in her present condi- 
tion, he ordered a sailor to help him, caught her up in 
his arms, and proceeded to swing himself over, that he 
might carry her into the boat. 

But at that moment dark figures occupied the deck, 
and a man arrested him with his hand, while in a loud 
and authoritative voice he called, “ No one leaves the 
vessel without my orders. Number Five, down into the 
boat and secure that. Number Seven, go with him. 
Now, one by one, and before each leaves, give over your 
purses and valuables that you are trying to save. No 
harm shall be done you, only make no resistance.” 

The ship, was in the hands of the wreckers. 

The men in the boat would have cast off at once, but 
the two men sent into it. Numbers Five and Seven, pre- 
vented them. The presence of the wreckers produced 
order where there had been confusion before. The man 
who had laid his hand on the Portuguese nun, and had 
given orders, was obeyed not only by his own men, but 
by the crew of the merchant vessel, and by the passen- 
gers, from whom all thoughts of resistance, if they ever 
rose, vanished at once. All alike, cowed and docile, 
obeyed without a murmur, and began to produce from 
their pockets whatever they had secured and hoped to 
carry ashore with them. 

“ Nudding ! me nudding ! ” gasped the nun. 

“ Let her pass down,” ordered the man who acted as 
captain. “ Now the next — you ! ” he turned on the young 
passenger who had assisted the nun. 

“ You scoundrel,” shouted the young man, “ you shall 
not have a penny of mine.” 

“We shall see,” answered the wrecker, and levelled 
a pistol at his head. “What answer do you make to 
this ?” 

The young man struck up the pistol, and it was dis- 
charged into the air. Then he sprang on the captain, 
stmck him in the chest, and grappled with him. In a 
moment a furious contest was engaged in between the 
two on the wet, sloping deck, sloping, for the cargo had 
shifted. 

“ Hah ! ” shouted the wrecker, “ a Cornishman.” 

Yes, a Cornishman,” answered the youth. 


272 IN TEE ROAR OF THE SEA. 

The wrecker knew whence he came by his method of 
wrestling. 

If there had been light, crew, invaders, and passengers 
would have gathered in a circle and watched the contest ; 
bnt in the dark, lashed by foam, in the roar of the waves 
and the pipe of the wind, only one or two that were 
near were aware of the conflict. Some of the crew were 
below. They had got at the spirits and were drinking. 
One drunken sailor rushed forth swearing and blasphem- 
ing and striking about him. He was knocked down by 
a wrecker, and a wave that heaved over the deck lifted 
him and swept him over the bulwarks. 

The wrestle between the two men in the dark taxed 
the full nerves and the skill of each. The young pas- 
senger was strong and nimble, but he had found his 
match in the wrecker. The latter was skilful and of 
great muscular power. First one went down on the 
knee, then the other, but each was up again in a mo- 
ment. A blinding whiff of foam and water slashed be- 
tween them, stinging their eyes, swashing into their 
mouths, forcing them momentarily to relax their hold 
of each other, but next moment they had leaped at each 
other again. Now they held each other, breast to breast, 
and sought, with their arms bowed like the legs of grass- 
hoppers, to strangle or break each other’s necks. Then, 
like a clap of thunder, beat a huge billow against the 
stern, and rolled in a liquid heap over the deck, envel- 
oping the wrestlers, and lifted them from their feet 
and cast them, writhing, pounding each other, on the 
deck. 

There were screams and gasps from the women as they 
escaped from the water; the nun shrieked to St. Joseph 
— she had lost her hold and fell overboard, but was 
caught and placed in the boat. 

“Now another,” was the shout. 

“ Hand me your money,” demanded one of the 
wreckers. “Madam, have no fear. We do not hurt 
women. I will help you into the boat.” 

“ I have nothing — nothing but this ! what shall I do if 
you take my money % ” 

“ I am sorry — you must either remain and drown when 
the ship breaks up or give me the purse.” 

She gave up the purse and was safely lodged below. 

“ Who are you ? ” gasped the captain of the wreckers 


m THE nOAR OF THE SEA, 273 

in a moment of relaxation from the desperate strug-- 
g-la 

“ An honest man — and you a villain,” retorted the 
young passenger, and the contest was recommenced. 

“ Let go,” said the wrecker, “ and you shall be allowed 
to depart — and carry your money with you.” 

“ I ask no man’s leave to carry what is my own,” an- 
swered the youth. He put his hand to his waist and un- 
buckled a belt, to this belt was attached a pouch well 
weighted with metal. “ There is all I have in the world 
— and with it I will beat your brains out.” He whirled 
the belt and money bag round his head and brought it 
down with a crash upon his adversary, who staggered 
back. The young man struck at him again, but in the 
dark missed him, and with the violence of the blow and 
weight of the purse was carried forward, and on the slip- 
pery inclined planks fell. 

“ Now I have you,” shouted the other ; he flung himself 
on the prostrate man and planted his knee on his back. 
But, assisted by the inclination of the deck, the young 
man slipped from beneath his antagonist, and half -rising 
caught him and dashed him against the rail. 

The wrecker was staggered for a moment, and had the 
passenger seized the occasion he might have finished the 
conflict ; but his purse had slipped from his hand, and he 
groped for the belt till he found one end at his feet, and 
now he twisted the belt round and about his right arm 
and weighted his fist with the pouch. 

The captain recovered from the blow, and flung himself 
on his adversary, grasped his arms between the shoulder 
and elbow, and iDore him back against the bulwark, drove 
him against it, and cast himself upon him. 

“ I’ve spared your life so far. Now I’ll spare you no 
more,” said he, and the young man felt one of his arms 
released. He could not tell at the time, he never could 
decide after how he knew it, but he was certain that his 
enemy was groping at his side for his knife. Then the 
hand of the wrecker closed on his throat, and the young 
man’s head was driven back over the rail, almost dislo- 
cating the neck. ^ 

It was then as though the young man saw into the 
mind of him w^ho had cast himself against him, and who 
was strangling him. He knew that he could not find his 
knife, but he saw nothing, only a fire and blood before his 


274 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


eyes that looked up into the black heavens, and he felt 
naught save agony at the nape of his neck, where his 
spine was turned back on the bulwarks. 

“ Number Seven ! any of you ! an axe ! ” roared the 
wrecker. “ By heaven you shall be as Wyvill ! and float 
headless on the waves.” 

“ Coppinger ! ” cried the young man, by a desperate ef- 
fort liberating his hand. He threw his arms round the 
wrecker. A dash and a boil of froth, and both went over- 
board, fighting as they fell into the surf. 

“ In the King’s name ! ” shouted a harsh voice. 

“ Surround — secure them all. Now we have them and 
they shall not escape.” 

The wreck was boarded by, and in the hands of, the 
coast-guard. 


CHAPTEK XXXm 


BKUISED NOT BROKEN. 

“ Come with me, uncle ! ” said Judith. 

“ My dear, I will follow you like a dog, everywhere.” 

“ I want to go to the rectory.” 

“ To the rectory ! At this time of night ? ” 

“ At once.” 

When the down was left there was no longer necessity 
for hiding the lantern, as they were within lanes, and 
the light would not be seen at sea. 

The distance to the parsonage was not great, and the 
little party were soon there, but were somewhat puzzled 
how to find the door, owing to the radical transforma- 
tions of the approaches effected by the new rector. 

Mr. Desiderius Mules was not in bed. He was in his 
study, without his collar and necktie, smoking, and com- 
posing a sermon. It is not only lucvs which is derived 
from non lucendo. A study in many a house is equally 
misnamed. In that of Mr. Mules’s house it had some 
claim, perhaps, to its title, for in it, once a week, Mr. 
Desiderius cudgelled his brains how to impart form to 
an inchoate mass of notes; but it hardly deserved its 
name as a place where the brain was exercised in ab- 
sorption of information. The present study was the old 
pantry. The old study had been occupied by a man of 
reading and of thought. Perhaps it was not unsuitable 
that the pantry should become Mr. Mules’s study, and 
where the maid had emptied her slop-water after clean- 
ing forks and plates should be the place for the making 
of the theological slop -water that was to be poured forth 
on the Sunday. But — what a word has been here used — 
theological — another Imus a non lucendo, for there was 
nothing of theology proper in the stuff compounded by 
Mr. Mules. 

We shall best be able to judge by observing him en- 
gaged on his sermon for Sunday. 


276 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


In liis mouth, was a pipe, on the table a jar of bird’s, 
eye ; item, a tumbler of weak brandy and water to moisten 
his lips with occasionally. It was weak. Mr. Mules 
never took a drop more than was good for him. 

Before him were arranged in a circle his materials for 
composition. On his extreme left was what he termed 
his treacle-pot. That was a volume of unctuous piety. 
Then came his dish of flummery. That was a volume of 
ornate discourses by a crack ladies’ preacher. Next his 
spice-box. That was a little store of anecdotes, illustra- 
tions, and pungent sayings. Pearson on the Creed, 
Bishop Andrews, or any work of solid divinity was not 
to be found either on his table or on his shelves. A 
Commentary was outspread, and a Concordance. 

The Beverend Desiderius Mules sipped his brandy 
and water, took a long whiff of his pipe, and then wrote 
his text. Then he turned to his Commentary and ex- 
tracted from it junks of moralization upon his text and 
on other texts which his Concordance told him had more 
or less to do with his head text. Then he peppered 
his paper well over with quotations, those in six lines 
preferred to those in three. 

“ Now,” said the manufacturer of the sermon, “ I must 
have a little treacle. I suppose those bumpkins will 
like it, but not much, I hate it myself. It is ridiculous. 
And I can dish up a trifle of flummery in here and there 
conveniently, and — let me see. I’ll work up to a story 
near the tail somehow. But what heading shall I give 
my discourse? ’Pon my word I don’t know what its 
subject is — we’ll call it General Piety. That will do ad- 
mirably. Yes, General Piety. Come in ! Who’s there ? ” 
^ A servant entered and said that there were Mr. Men- 
aida and the lady that was married that morning, at the 
door, wanting to speak with him. Should she show them 
into the study ? 

Mr. Mules looked at his brandy and water, then at his 
array of material for composition, and then at his neck- 
erchief on the floor, and said : “ No, into the drawing- 
room.” The maid was to light the candles. He would 
put on his collar and be with them shortly. 

So the sermon had to be laid aside. 

Presently Mr. Desiderius Mules entered his drawing- 
room,^ where Judith, Uncle Zachie, and Jamie were 
awaiting him. 


TK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


277 


“A late visit, but always welcome,” said the rector. 
“ Sorrj^ I kept you waiting, but I was en deshabille. Wliat 
can I do for you now, eh ? ” 

Judith was composed, she had formed her resolution. 

She said, “ You married me this morning when I was 
unconscious. I answered but one of your questions. 
Will you get your prayer-book and I will make my re- 
sponses to all those questions you put to me when I was 
in a dead faint.” 

“ Oh, not necessary. Sign the register and it is all 
right. Silence gives consent, you know.” 

“ I wish it otherwise, particularly, and then you can 
judge for yourself whether silence gives consent.” 

Mr. Desiderius Mules ran back into his study, pulled 
a whiff at his pipe to prevent the fire from going out, 
moistened his untempered clay with brandy and water, 
and came back again with a Book of Common Prayer. 

“ Here we are,” said he. “ ‘ Wilt thou have this man,’ 
and so on — you answered to that, I believe. Then comes 
‘I, Judith, take thee, Curll, to my wedded husband’— 
you were indistinct over that, I believe.” 

“ I remember nothing about it. Now I will say dis- 
tinctly my meaning. I will not take Curll Coppinger to 
my wedded husband, and thereto I will never give my 
troth — so help me, God.” 

“ Goodness gracious ! ” exclaimed the rector. “ You 
put me in a queer position. I married you, and you 
can’t undo what is done. You have the ring on your 
finger.” 

“ No, here it is. I return it.” 

“ I refuse to take it. I have nothing whatever to do 
with the ring. Captain Coppinger put it on your hand.” 

“ ^Vlien I was unconscious.” 

“ But am I to be choused out of my fee— as out of 
other things ? ” 

“ You shall have your fee. Do not concern yourseK 
about that. I refuse to consider myself married. ^ I re- 
fuse to sign the register, no man shall force me to it, and 
if it comes to law, here are witnesses, you yourself are a 
witness, that I was unconscious when you married me.” 

“ I shall get into trouble ! This is a very unpleasant 
state of affairs.” 

“It is more unpleasant for me than for you,” said 
Judith. 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


278 


“ It is a most awkward complication. Never heard of 
such a case before. Don’t you think that after a g’ood 
night’s rest and a good supper — and let me advise a stiff 
glass of something warm, taken medicinally, you under- 
stand — that you will come round to a better mind.” 

“ To anotlier mind I shall not come round. I suppose 
I am half married — never by my will shall that half be 
made into a whole.” 

“ And what do you want me to do ■? ” asked Mr. Mules, 
thoroughly put out of his self-possession by this extraor- 
dinary scene. 

“Nothing,” answered Judiah, “save to bear testimony 
that I utterly and entirely refuse to complete the mar- 
riage which was half done — by answering to those ques- 
tions with a consent, which I failed to answer in church 
because I fainted, and to wear the ring which was forced 
on me when I was insensible, and to sign the register 
now I am in full possession of my wits. We will detain 
you no longer.” 

Judith left along with Jamie and Mr. Menaida, and 
Mr. Mules returned to his sermon. He pulled at his 
pipe till the almost expired fire was rekindled into glow, 
and he mixed himself a little more brandy and water. 
Then with his pipe in the corner of his mouth he looked 
at his discourse. It did not quite please him, it was un- 
digested. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mr. Desiderius. “ My mind is all 
of a whirl, and I can do nothing to this now. It must 
go as it is — yet stay, I’ll change the title. General 
Piety is rather pointless. I’ll call it Practical Piety.” 

Judith returned to Pentyre Glaze. She was satisfied 
with what she had done ; anger and indignation were in 
her heart. The man to whom she had given her hand 
had enlisted her poor brother in the wicked work of lur- 
ing unfortunate sailors to their destruction. She could 
hardly conceive of anything more diabolical than this 
form of wrecking: her Jamie was involved in the crime 
of drawing men to their death. A ship had been wrecked, 
she knew that by the minute guns, and if lives were lost 
from it, the guilt in a measure rested on the head of 
Jamie. ^ But for her intervention he would have been 
taken in the act of showing light to mislead mariners, 
and would certainly have been brought before magistrates 
and most probably have been imprisoned. The thought 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


279 


that her brother, the son of such a father, should have 
escaped this disgrace through an accident only, and that 
he had been subjected to the risk by Copinnger, filled 
her veins with liquid fire. Thenceforth there could be 
nothing between her and Captain Cruel, save antipathy, 
resentment, and contempt on her part. His passion for 
her must cool or chase itself away. She would never 
yield to him a hair’s breadth. 

Judith threw herself on her bed, in her clothes. She 
could not sleep. Wrath against Coppinger seethed in 
her young heart. Concerned she was for the wrecked, 
but concern for them was over-lapped by fiery indigna- 
tion against the wrecker. There was also in her breast 
self-reproach. She had not accepted as final her father’s 
judgment on the man. She had allowed Coppinger’s 
admiration of herself to move her from a position of un- 
compromising hostility, and to awake in her suspicions 
that her dear, dear father might have been mistaken, 
and that the man he condemned might not be guilty as 
he supposed. 

As she lay tossing on her bed, turning from side to 
side, her face now flaming, then white, she heard a noise 
in the house. She sat up on her bed and listened. 
There was now no light in the room, and she would not 
go into that of her aunt to borrow one. Miss Trevisa 
might be asleep, and would be vexed to be disturbed. 
Moreover resentment against her aunt for having forced 
her into the marriage was strong in the girl’s heart, and 
she had no wish to enter into any communications with 
her. 

So she sat on her bed, listening. 

There was certainly disturbance below. What was the 
meaning of it ? 

Presently she heard her aunt’s voice down-stairs. She 
was therefore not asleep in her room. 

Thereupon Judith descended the stairs to the hall. 
There she found Captain Coppinger being carried to his 
bedroom by two men, while Miss Trevisa held a light. 
He was streaming with water that made pools on the 
floor. 

“ What is the matter ? Is he hurt ? Is he hurt seri- 
ously ? ” she asked, her woman’s sympathy at once 
aroused by the sight of suffering. 

has had a bad fall,” replied her aunt. “ He went 


280 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


to a wreck that has been cast on Doom Bar, to help to 
save the unfortunate, and save what they value equally 
with their lives — their goods, and he was washed over- 
board. Fell into the sea, and was dashed against that 
boat. Yes — he is injured. No bones broken this time. 
This time he had to do with the sea and with men. But 
he is badly bruised. Go on,” she said to those who were 
conveying Coppinger. “ He is in pain, do you not see 
this as you stand here ? Lay him on his bed, and re- 
move his clothes. He is drenched to the skin. I will 
brew him a posset.” 

“ May I help you, aunt ? ” 

“ I can do it myself.” 

Judith remained with Miss Trevisa. She said nothing 
to her till the posset was ready. Then she offered to 
carry it to her husband. 

“ As you will — here it is,” said Aunt Dionysia. 

Thereupon Judith took the draught, and went with it 
to Captain Coppinger’s room. He was in his bed. No 
one was with him, but a candle burned on the table. 

“ You have come to me, Judith ? ” he said with glad 
surprise. 

“ Yes — I have brought you the posset. Drink it out 
to the last drop.” 

She handed it to him ; and he took the hot caudle. 

“ I need not finish the bowl ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes — to the last drop.” 

He complied, and then suddenly withdrew the vessel 
from his lips. “ What is this — at the bottom ? — a ring ? ” 
He extracted a plain gold ring from the bowl. 

‘‘ What is the meaning of this ? It is a wedding- 
ring.” 

“ Yes — mine.” 

“ It is early to lose it.” 

“ I threw it in.” 

“ You— Judith— why ?” 

“ I return it to you.” 

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her fix- 
edly with threatening eyes. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” 

“ That ring was put on my finger when I was uncon- 
scious. Wait till I accept it freely.” 

“ But — Judith — the wedding is over,” 

“ Only a half wedding.” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


281 


“Well — well — it shall soon be a whole one. We will 
have the register signed to-morrow.” 

Judith shook her head. 

“ You are acting strangely to-night,” said he. 

“.^swer me,” said Judith. “Did you not send out 
Jamie with a light to mislead the sailors, and draw them 
on to Doom Bar ? ” 

“ Jamie, again ! ” exclaimed Coppinger, impatiently. 

“Yes, I have to consider for Jamie. Answer me, did 
you not send him ” 

He burst in angrily, “ If you will — yes — he took the 
light to the shore. I knew there was a wreck. When 
a ship is in distress she must have a light.” 

“ You are not speaking the truth. Answer me, did 
you go on board the wrecked vessel to save those who 
were cast away ? ” 

“ They would not have been saved without me. They 
had lost their heads — every one.” 

“Captain Coppinger,” said Judith, “I have lost all 
trust in you. I return you the ring which I will never 
wear. I have been to see the rector and told him that I 
refuse you, and I will never sign the register.” 

“ I will force the ring on to your finger,” said Cop- 
pinger. 

“ You are a man, stronger than I — but I can defend 
myself, as you know to your cost. Half married we are 
— and so must remain, and never, never shall we be more 
than that.” 

Then she left the room, and Coppinger dashed his 
posset cup to the ground, but held the ring and turned 
it in his fingers, and the light flickered on it, a red gold 
ring like that red gold hair that was about his throat. 


CHAPTEK XXXVin. 


A CHANGE OF WIND. 

After many years of separation, father and son were 
together once more. Early in the morning after the 
wreck in Dover Bar, Oliver Menaida appeared at his 
father’s cottage, bruised and wet through, but in health 
and with his purse in' his hand. 

When he had gone overboard with the wrecker, the 
tide was falling and he had been left on the sands of the 
Bar, where he had spent a cold and miserable night, with 
only the satisfaction to warm him that his life and his 
money were his. He was not floating, like Wyvill, a 
headless trunk, nor was he without his pouch that con- 
tained his gold and valuable papers. 

Mr. Menaida was roused from sleep very early to admit 
Oliver. The young man had recognized where he was, 
as soon as suflicient light was in the sky, and he had 
been carried across the estuary of the Camel by one of 
the boats that was engaged in clearing the wreck, under 
the direction of the captain of the coast-guard. But 
three men had been arrested on the wrecked vessel, three 
of those who had boarded her for plunder, all the rest 
had effected their escape, and it was questionable whether 
these three could be brought to justice, as they protested 
they had come from shore as salvers. They had heard 
the signals of distress and had put off to do what they 
could for those who were in jeopardy. No law forbad 
men coming to the assistance of the wrecked. It could 
not be proved that they had laid their hands on and kept 
for their own use any of the goods of the passengers or 
any of the cargo of the vessel. It was true that from 
some of the women their purses had been exacted, but 
the men taken professed their innocence of having done 
this, and the man who had made the demand — there was 
but one — had disappeared. Unhappily he had not been 
secured. 


/iY THE HOAR OF THE SEA, 


283 


It was a question also whether proceedings could be 
taken relative to the exhibition of lights that had mis- 
guided the merchantman. The coast-guard had come on 
Mr. Menaida and Judith on the downs with a light, but 
he was conducting her to her new house, and there could 
be entertained against them no suspicion of having acted 
with evil intent. 

“ Do you know, father,” said Oliver, after he was rested, 
had slept and fed, “ I am pretty sure that the scoundrel 
who attacked me was Captain Coppinger. I cannot 
swear. It is many years now since I heard his voice, and 
when I did hear it, it was but very occasionally. What 
made me suspect at the time that I was struggling with 
Captain Cruel was that he had my head back over the 
gunwale and called for an axe, swearing that he would 
treat me like Wyvill. That story was new when I left 
home, and folk said that Coppinger had killed the man.” 

Mr. Menaida fidgeted. 

“ That was the man who was at the head of the entire 
gang. He it was who issued the orders which the rest 
obeyed ; and he, moreover, was the man who required 
the passengers to deliver up their purses and valuables 
before he allowed them to enter the boat.” 

“ Between ourselves,” said Uncle Zachie, rubbing his 
chin and screwing up his mouth, “ between you and me 
and the poker, I have no doubt about it, and I could 
bring his neck into the halter if I chose.” 

“ Then why do you not, father ? The rufiian would not 
have scrupled to hack off my head had an axe been handy, 
or had I waited till he had got hold of one.” 

Mr. Menaida shook his head. 

“ There are a deal of things that belong to all things,” 
he said. “I was on the down with my little pet and idol, 
Judith, and we had the lantern, and it was that lantern 
that proved fatal to your vessel.” 

“ What, father ! We owe our wreck to you ? ” 

“ No, and yet it must be suffered to be so supposed, I 
must allow many hard words to be rapped out against me, 
my want of consideration, my scatterbrainedness. I ad- 
mit that I am not a Solomon, but I should not be such an 
ass, such a criminal, as on a night like the last to walk 
over the downs above the cliffs with a lantern. Neverthe- 
less I cannot clear myself.” 

“ Why not ? ” 


284 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Because of Judith.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“ I was escorting her home, to her husband’s 

“ Is she married ■? ” 

“ Ton my word, I can’t say ; half and half ” 

‘T do not understand you.” 

“ I will explain, later,” said Mr. Menaida. “ It’s a per- 
plexing question, and though I was brought up at the 
law, upon my word I can’t say how the law would stand 
in the matter.” 

“ But how about the false lights 1 ” 

“ I am coming to that. When the Preventive men came 
on us, led by Scantlebray — and why he was with them, 
and what concern it was of his, I don’t know — when the 
guard found us, it is true Judith had the lantern, but it 
was under her cloak.” 

“We, however, saw the light for some time.” 

“Yes, but neither she nor I showed it. We had not 
brought a light with us. We knew that it would be wrong 
to do so, but we came on someone diiving an ass with a 
lantern affixed to the head of the brute.” 

“ Then say so.” 

“ I cannot — that person was Judith’s brother.” 

“ But he is an idiot.” 

“ He was sent out with the light.” 

“ Well, then, that person who sent him will be pun- 
ished and the silly boy will come o£f scot free.” 

“I cannot — he who sent the boy was Judith’s hus- 
band.” 

“Judith’s husband ! Who is that ? ” 

“ Captain Coppinger.” 

“Well, what of that? The man is a double-dyed vil- 
lain. He ought to be brought to justice. Consider the 
crimes of which he has been guilty. Consider what he 
has done this past night. I cannot see, father, that mere- 
ly because you esteem a young person, who may be very 
estimable, we should let a consummate scoundrel go free, 
solely because he is her husband. He has brought a fine 
ship to wreck, he has produced much wretchedness and 
alarm. Indeed, he has been the occasion of some lives 
being lost, for one or two of the sailors, thinking we were 
going to Davy J ones’s locked, got drunk and were car- 
ried overboard. Then, consider, he robbed some of the 
unhappy, frightened women as they were escaping. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 285 

Bless me ! ” Oliver sprang up and paced the room. “ It 
makes my blood seethe. The fellow deserves no con- 
sideration. Give him up to justice; let him be hung or 
transported.” 

Mr. Menaida passed his hand through his hair, and lit 
his pipe. 

“ Ton my word,” said he, “ there’s a good deal to be 
said on your side — and yet ” 

“ There is everything to be said on my side,” urged 
Oliver, with vehemence. “ The man is engaged on his 
nefarious traffic. Winter is setting in. He will wreck 
other vessels as well, and if you spare him now, then the 
guilt of causing the destruction of other vessels and the 
loss of more lives will rest in a measure on you.” 

“ And yet,” pleaded Menaida, senior, “ I don’t know — 
I don’t like — you see ” 

“ You are moved by a little sentiment for Miss Judith 
Travisa, or — I beg her pardon — Mrs. Cruel Coppinger. 
But it is a mistake, father. If you had had this senti- 
mental regard for her, and value for her, you should not 
have suffered her to marry such a scoundrel, past re- 
demption.” 

“ I could not help it. I told her that the man was 
bad — ^that is to say — I believed he was a smuggler, and 
that he was generally credited with being a wrecker as 
well. But there were other influences — other forces at 
work — I could not help it.” 

“The sooner we can rid her of this villain the bet- 
ter,” persisted Oliver. “ I cannot share your scruples, 
father.” 

Then the door opened and Judith entered. 

Oliver stood up. He had reseated himself on the op- 
posite side of the Are to his father, after the ebullition 
of wrath that had made him pace the room. 

He saw before him a delicate, girlish figure— a child 
in size and in innocence of face, but with a woman’s 
force of character in the brow, clear eyes, and set mouth. 
She was ivory white ; her golden hair was spread out 
about her face — blown by the wind, it was a veritable 
halo, such as is worn by an angel of La Fiesole in Cima- 
bue. Her long, slender, white throat was bare ; she had 
short sleeves, to the elbows, and bare arms. Her stock- 
ings were white, under the dark-blue gown. Oliver 
Menaida had spent a good many years in Portugal, and 


286 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


had seen flat faces, sallow complexions, and dark hair — 
women without delicacy of bone and g'race of figure — 
and, on his return to England, the first woman he saw 
was Judith — this little, pale, red- gold-headed creature, 
with eyes iridescent and full of a soul that made them 
sparkle and change color with every change of emotion 
in the heart and of thought in the busy brain. 

Oliver was a fine man, tall, with a bright and honest 
face, fair hair, and blue eyes. He started back from his 
seat and looked at this child-bride who entered his 
father’s cottage. He knew at once who she was, from 
the descriptions he had received of her from his father 
in letters from home. 

He did not understand how she had become the wife 
of Cruel Coppinger. He had not heard the story from 
his father, still less could he comprehend the enigmati- 
cal words of his father relative to her half-and-half mar- 
riage. As now he looked on this little figure, that 
breathed an atmosphere of perfect purity, of untouched 
innocence, and yet not mixed with that weakness which 
so often characterizes innocence — on the contrary blend- 
ed with a strength and force beyond her years — Oliver’s 
heart rose with a bound and smote against his ribs. He 
was overcome with a qualm of infinite pity for this poor, 
little, fragile being, whose life was linked with that of 
one so ruthless as Coppinger. Looking at that anxious 
face, at those lustrous eyes, set in lids that were red- 
dened with weeping, he knew that the iron had entered 
into her soul, that she had suffered and was suffer- 
ing then; nay, more, that the life opening before her 
would be one of almost unrelieved contrariety and sor- 
row. 

At once he understood his father’s hesitation when he 
urged him to increase the load of shame and trouble 
that lay on her. He could not withdraw his eyes from 
Judith. She was to him a vision so wonderful, so 
strange, so thrilling, so full of appeal to his admiration 
and to his chivalry. 

“ Here, Ju ! here is my Oliver, of whom I have told 
you so much ! ” said Menaida, running up to Judith. 
“ Oliver, boy ! she has read your letters, and I believe 
they gave her almost as great pleasure as they did 
me. She was always interested in you. I mean ever 
since she came into my house, uud we have talked 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 287 

gether about you, and upon my word it really seemea a» 
if you were to her as a brother.” 

A faint smile came on Judith’s face ; she held out her 
hand and said : 

“ Yes, I have come to love your dear father, who has 
been to me so kind, and to Jamie also ; he has been full 
of thought — I mean kindness. What has interested him 
has interested me. I call him uncle, so I will call you 
cousin. May it be so ? ” 

He touched her hand ; he did not dare to grasp the 
frail, slender white hand. But as he touched it, there 
boiled up in his heart a rage against Coppinger, that he 
— this man steeped in iniquity — should have obtained 
possession of a pearl set in ruddy gold — a pearl that he 
was, so thought Oliver, incapable of appreciating. 

“ How came you here ? ” asked Judith. “ Your father 
has been expecting you some time, but not so soon.” 

“ I am come off the wreck.” 

She started back and looked fixedly on him. 

“ What — you were wrecked? — in that ship last night?” 

“ Yes. j^yter the fog lifted we were quite lost as to 
where we were, and ran aground.” 

“ What led you astray ? ” 

“ Our own bewilderment and ignorance as to where 
we were.” 

“ And you got ashore ? ” 

“Yes. I was put across by the Preventive men. I 
spent half the night on Doom Bar.” 

“ Were any lives lost ? ” 

“ Only those lost their lives who threw them away. 
Some tipsy sailors, who got at the spirits, and drank 
themselves drunk.” 

“ And — did any others — I mean did any wreckers come 
to your ship ? ” 

“ Salvors ? Yes ; salvors came to save what could be 
saved. That is always so.” 

Judith drew a long breath of relief ; but she could not 
forget Jamie and the ass. 

“ You were not led astray by false lights ? ” 

“ Any lights we might have seen were sure to lead us 
astray, as we did not in the least know where we were.” 

“ Thank you,” said Judith. Then she turned to Uncle 
Zachie. 

“ I have a favor to ask of you.” 


288 


/iV" THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Anytliing* you ask I will do.” 

“ It is to let Jamie live here, he is more likely to be 
well employed, less likely to get in wrong courses, than 
at the Glaze. Alas ! I cannot be with him always and 
everywhere, and I cannot trust him there. Here he has 
his occupation ; he can help you with the birds. There 
he has nothing, and the men he meets are not such as I 
desire that he should associate with. Besides, you know, 
uncle, what occurred last night, and why I am anxious to 
get him away.” 

“ Yes,” answered the old man ; “ I’ll do my best. He 
shall be welcome here.” 

“Moreover, Captain Coppinger dislikes him. He 
might in a fit of anger maltreat him ; I cannot say 
that he loould, but he makes no concealment of his dis- 
like.” 

“ Send Jamie here.” 

“ And then I can come every day and see him, how he 
is getting on, and can encourage him with his work, and 
give him his lessons as usual.” 

“ It will always be a delight to me to have you here.” 

“ And to me — to come.” She might have said, “ to be 
away from Pentyre,” but she refrained from saying that. 
With a faint smile — a smile that was but the twinkle of 
a tear — she held out her hand to say farewell. 

Uncle Zachie clasped it, and then, suddenly, she bent 
and kissed his hand. 

“ You must not do that,” said he, hastily. 

She looked piteously into his eyes, and said, in a 
whisper that he alone could hear — “ I am so lonely.” 

When she was gone the old man returned to the ingle 
nook and resumed his pipe. He did not speak, but 
every now and then he put one finger furtively to his 
cheek, wiped off something, and drew very vigorous 
whiffs of tobacco. 

Nor was Oliver inclined to speak ; he gazed dreamily 
into the fire, with contracted brows, and hands that were 
clenched. 

A quarter of an hour thus passed. Then Oliver looked 
up at his father, and said : “ There is worse wrecking 
than that of ships. Can nothing be done for this poor 
little craft, drifting in fog — aimless ! — and going on to 
the rocks ? ” 

Uncle Zachie again wiped his cheek, and in his 


m TEE ROAR OF THE SEA. 289 

thoughtlessness wiped it with the bowl of his pipe and 
burnt himself. He shook his head. 

“ Now tell me what you meant when you said she was 
but half married,” said Oliver. 

Then his father related to him the circumstances of 
Judith’s forced engagement, and of the incomplete mar- 
riage of the day before. 

“ By my soul ! ” exclaimed Oliver. “ He must — he shall 
not treat her as he did our vessel.” 

“ Oh, Oliver ! if I had had my way — I had designed 
her for you.” 

For me ! ” 

Oliver bent his head and looked hard into the fire, 
where strange forms of light were dancing — dancing and 
disappearing. 

Then Mr. Menaida said, between his whiffs : “ Surely 
a change of wind, Oliver. A little while ago, and she 
was not to be considered; justice above all, and Judith 
sacrificed, if need be — now it is Judith above all.” 

“ Yes,” musingly, ‘‘ above all.” 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 


A riEST LIE. 

As a faithful, as a loving* wife almost, did J udith at- 
tend to Copping*er for the day or two before he was him- 
self again. He had been bruised, that was all. The 
waves had driven him against the boat, and he had been 
struck by an oar ; but the very fact that he was driven 
against the boat had proved his salvation, for he was 
drawn on board, and his own men carried him swiftly to 
the bank, and, finding him unable to walk, conveyed him 
home. On reaching home a worse blow than that of 
the oar had struck him, and struck him on the heart, and 
it was dealt him by his wife. She bade him put away 
from him for ever the expectation, the hope, of her be- 
coming his in more than name. 

Pain and disappointment made him irritable. He 
broke out into angry complaint, and Judith had much to 
endure. She did not answer him. She had told him her 
purpose, and she would neither be bullied nor cajoled to 
alter it. 

Judith had much time to herself; she wandered 
through the rooms of Pentyre during the day without 
encountering anyone, and then strolled on the cliffs ; 
wherever she went she carried her "trouble with her, 
gnawing at her heart. There was no deliverance for her, 
and she did not turn her mind in that direction. She 
would remain what she w"as — Coppinger’s half-wife, a 
wife without a wedding-ring, united to him by a most 
dubiously legal ceremony. She bore his name, she was 
content to do that ; she must bear with his love turned 
to fury by disappointment. She would do that till it 
died away before her firm and unchangeable opposition. 

“ What will be said,” growled Coppinger, “ when it is 
seen that you wear no ring ? ” 

“ I will wear my mother’s, and turn the stone within,” 
answered Judith, “ then it will be like our marriage, a 
semblance, nothing more.” 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


291 


Slie did appear next day with a ring-. When the hand 
was closed, it looked like a plain gold wedding- hoop. 
AVhen she opened and turned her hand, it was apparent 
that within was a small brilliant. A modest ring-, a very 
inexpensive one, that her father had given to her mother 
as a guard. Modest and inexpensive because his purse 
could afford no better ; not because he would not have 
given her the best diamonds available, had he possessed 
the means to purchase them. 

This ring had been removed from the dead finger of 
her mother, and Mr. Peter Trevisa had preserved it as a 
present for the daughter. 

Almost every day Judith went to Polzeath to give 
lessons to Jamie, and to see how the boy was going on. 
Jamie was happy with Mr. Menaida, he liked a little 
desultory work, and Oliver was kind to him, took him 
walks, and talked to him of scenes in Portugal. 

Very often, indeed, did Judith, when she arrived, 
find Oliver at his father’s. He would sometimes sit 
through the lesson, often attend her back to the gate 
of Pentyre. His conduct toward her was deferential, 
tinged with pity. She could see in his eyes, read in his 
manner of address, that he knew her story, and grieved 
for her, and would do anything he could to release her 
from her place of torment, if he knew how. But he 
never spoke to her of Coppinger, never of her marriage, 
and the peculiar features that attended it. She often 
ventured on the topic of the wreck, and he saw that she 
was probing him to discover the truth concerning it, 
but he on no occasion allowed himself to say anything 
that could give her reason to believe her husband was 
the cause of the ship being lost, nor did he tell her of 
his own desperate conflict with the wrecker captain on 
board the vessel. 

He was a pleasant companion, cheerful and entertain- 
ing. Having been abroad, though not having travelled 
widely, he could tell much about Portugal, and some- 
thing about Spain. Judith’s eager mind was greedy 
after information, and it diverted her thoughts from 
painful topics to hear and talk about orange and lemon 
groves, the vineyards, the flower-gardens, the manners 
and customs of the people of Portugal, to see sketches 
of interesting places, and of the costumes of the peas- 
antry. What i:ew her to Oliver specially was, however, 


292 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


his considerabion for Jamie, to whom he was always 
kind, and whom he was disposed to amuse. 

The wreck of the merchantman on Doom Bar had 
caused a great commotion among the inhabitants of Corn- 
wall. All the gentry, clergy, and the farmers and yeomen 
not immediately on the coast, felt that wrecking was not 
only a monstrous act of inhumanity, but was a scandal 
to the county, and ought to be peremptorily suppressed, 
and those guilty of it brought to justice. It was current- 
ly reported that the merchantman from Oporto was 
wilfully wrecked, and that an attempt had been made to 
rob and plunder the passengers and the vessel. But the 
evidence in support of this view was of little force. The 
only persons who had been found with a light on the 
cliffs were Mr. Menaida, whom every one respected for 
his integrity, and Judith, the daughter of the late rector 
of St. Enodoc, the most strenuous and uncompromising 
denouncer of wrecking. No one, however malicious, 
could believe either to be guilty of more than impru- 
dence. 

The evidence as to the attempt of wreckers to invade 
the ship, and plunder it and the passengers also broke 
down. One lady alone could swear that her purse had 
been forcibly taken from her. The Portuguese men 
could hardly understand English, and though she as- 
serted that she had been asked for money, she could 
not say that anything had been taken from her. It was 
quite possible that she had misunderstood an order 
given her to descend into the boat. 

The night had been dark, the lady who had been 
robbed could not swear to the identity of the man who 
had taken her purse, she could not even say that it w^as 
one of those who had come to the vessel, and was not one 
of the crew. The crew had behaved notoriously badly, 
some had been drunk, and it was possible that one of 
these fellows, flushed with spirits, had demanded and 
taken her money. 

There were two or three St. Enodoc men arrested be- 
cause found on the ship at the time, but they persisted 
in the declaration that, hearing signals of distress, they 
had kindled a light and set it in the tower window of the 
church as a guide to the ship -wrecked, and had gone to 
the vessel aground on Doom Bar, with the intention of 
offering every assistance in their power to the castaways. 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


293 


They asserted that they had found the deck in confusion. 
The seamen drunk and lost to discipline, the passengers 
helpless and frightened, and that it was only owing to 
them that some sort of order was brought about, or at- 
tempted. The arrival of the coastguard interfered with 
their efforts to be useful. 

The magistrates were constrained to dismiss the case, 
although possessed with the moral conviction that the 
matter was not as the accused represented. The only 
person who could have given evidence that might have 
consigned them to prison was Oliver, and he was not 
called upon to give witness. 

But, although the case had broken down completely, 
an uneasy and angry feeling prevailed. People were not 
convinced that the wreck was accidental, and they be- 
lieved that but for the arrival of the guard, the passen- 
gers would have been robbed and the ship looted. It 
was true enough that a light had been exhibited from St. 
Enodoc tower, but that served as a guide to those who 
rushed upon the wreck, and was every whit as much to 
their advantage as to that of the shipwrecked men. For, 
suppose that the crew and passengers had got off in their 
boats, they would have made, naturally, for the light, 
and who could say but that a gang of ruffians was not 
waiting on the shore to plunder them as they landed. 

The general feeling in the county was one of vexation 
that more prompt action had not been taken, or that the 
action taken had not been more successful. No man 
showed this feeling more fully than Mr. Scantlebray, who 
hunted with the coastguard for his own ends, and who 
had felt sanguine that in this case Coppinger would be 
caught. 

That Coppinger was at the bottom of the attempt, 
which had been partly successful, few doubted, and yet 
there was not a shadow of proof against him. But that, 
according to common opinion, only showed how deep 
was his craft. 

The state of Judith’s mind was also one of unrest. She 
had a conviction seated in her heart that all was not 
right, and yet she had no sound cause for charging her 
husband with being a deliberate wrecker. Jamie had 
gone out with his ass and the lantern, that was true, but 
was Jamie’s account of the affair to be relied on? When 
questioned he became confused. He never could be 


294 


I2V THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


trusted to recall, tweuty-four liours after an event, the 
particulars exactly as they occurred. Any sug-g’estive 
queries drew him aside, and without an intent to deceive 
he would tell what was a lie, simply because he could 
not distinguish between realities and fleeting impres- 
sions. She knew that if she asked him whether Cop- 
pinger had fastened the lantern to the head of his don- 
key, and had bidden him drive the creature slowly up 
and down the inequalities of the surface of the cliffs, he 
would assent, and say it was so ; but, then, if she were to 
say to him, “ Now, Jamie, did not Captain Coppinger tell 
you on no account to show the light till you reached the 
shore at St. Enodoc, and then to fix it steadily,” that his 
face would for a moment assume a vacant, then a dis- 
tressed expression, and he would finally say that he be- 
lieved it really was so. No reliance was to be placed on 
anything he said, except at the moment, and not always 
then. He was liable to misunderstand directions, and by 
a stupid perversity to act exactly contrary to the instruc- 
tions given him. 

Judith heard nothing of the surmises that floated in 
the neighborhood, but she knew enough to be uneasy. 
She had been somewhat reassured by Oliver Menaida ; 
she could see no reason why he should withhold the truth 
from her. Was it, then, possible after all that Captain 
Coppinger had gone to the rescue of the wrecked people, 
that he had sent the light not to mislead, but to direct 
them aright ? 

It was Judith’s fate — so it seemed — to be never cer- 
tain whether to think the worst of Coppinger, or to hold 
that he had been misjudged by her. He had been badly 
hurt in his attempt to rescue the crew and passengers 
— according to Aunt Dionysia’s account. If she were to 
believe this story, then he was deserving of respect. 

Judith began to recover some of her cheerfulness, 
some of her freshness of looks. This was due to the 
abatement of her fears. Coppinger had angrily, sullenly, 
accepted the relation which she had assured him must 
subsist between them, and which could never be altered. 

Aunt Dionysia was peevish and morose indeed. She 
had been disappointed in her hope of getting into Othel- 
lo Cottage before Christmas ; but she had apparently re- 
ceived a caution from Coppinger not to exhibit ill-will 
toward his wife by word or token, and she restrained her- 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


295 


self, though with manifest effort. That sufficed Judith. 
She no longer looked for, cared for love from her aunt. 
It satisfied her if Miss Trevisa left her unmolested. 

Moreover, Judith enjoyed the walk to Polzeath every 
day, and, somehow, the lessons to J amie gave her an in- 
terest that she had never found in them before. Oliver 
was so helpful. When Jamie was stubborn, he per- 
suaded him with a joke or a promise to laugh and put 
aside his ill-humor, and attack the task once more. The 
little gossiping talk after the lesson with Oliver, or with 
Oliver and his father, was a delight to her. She looked 
forward to it, from day to day, naturally, reasonably, for 
at the Glaze she had no one with whom to converse, no 
one with the same general interests as herself, the same 
knowledge of books, and pleasure in the acquisition of 
information. 

On mountain sides there are floral zones. The rhodo- 
dendron and the gentian luxuriate at a certain level, 
above is the zone of the blue hippatica, the soldanella, 
and white crocus ; below is the belt of mealy primula 
and lilac clematis. So is it in the world of minds — they 
have their levels, and can only live on those levels. 
Transplant them to a higher or to a lower zone and they 
suffer, and die. 

Judith found no one at Pentyre with whom she could 
associate with pleasure. It was only when she was at 
Polzeath with Uncle Zachie and Oliver that she could 
talk freely and feel in her element. 

One day Oliver said to her, “ Judith ’’—for, on the 
understanding that they were cousins, they called each 
other by their Christian names — “ Judith ! are you going 
to the ball at Wadebridge after Christmas % ” 

“ Ball, Oliver, what ball ? ” 

“ That which Mr. Mules is giving for the restoration 
of his church.” 

“ I do not know. I — yes, I have heard of it ; but I had 
clean forgotten all about it. I had rather not.” 

“ But you must, and promise me three dances, at least.” 

“ I do not know what to say. Captain Coppinger 
she never spoke of her husband by his Christian name, 
never thought of him as other than Captain Coppinger. 
Did she think of Oliver as Mr. Menaida, junior % “ Cap- 
tain Coppinger has not said anything to me about it of 
late. I do not wish to go. My dear father’s death — 


296 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


“ But the dance is after Christmas. And, you know, 
it is for a sacred purpose. Think, every whirl you take 
puts a new stone on the foundations, and every setting 
to your partner in quadrille adds a pane of glass to the 
battered windows.” 

“ I do not know,” again said Judith, and became grave. 
Her heart fluttered. She would like to be at the ball — 
and dance three dances with Oliver — but would Captain 
Coppinger suffer her ? Would he expect to dance with 
her all the evening? If that were so, she would not 
like to go. “I really do not know,” again she said, 
clasped her hands on her knees, and sighed. 

“ Why that sigh, Judith ? ” 

She looked up, dropped her eyes in confusion, and 
said faintly, “ I do not know,” and that was her first lie. 


CHAPTEK XL. 


THE DIAMOND BXJTTEBFLY. 

Poor little fool ! Shrewd in maintaining’ her conflict 
with Cruel Coppinger — always on the defensive, ever on 
guard, she was sliding unconsciously, without the small- 
est suspicion of danger, into a state that must event- 
ually make her position more desperate and intolerable. 
In her inexperience she had never supposed that her own 
heart could be a traitor within the city walls. She took 
pleasure in the society of Oliver, and thought no wrong 
in so doing. She liked him, and would have reproached 
herself had she not done so. 

Her relations with Coppinger remained strained. He 
was a good deal from home ; indeed, he went on a cruise 
in his vessel, the Black Prince, and was absent for a 
month. He hoped that in his absence she might come 
to a better mind. They met, when he was at home, 
at meals ; at other times not at all. He went his way, 
she went hers. Whether the agitation of men’s minds 
relative to the loss of the merchantman, and the rumors 
concerning the manner of its loss, had made Captain 
Cruel think it were well for him to absent himself for 
a while, till they had blown away, or whether he thought 
that his business required his attention elsewhere, or 
that by being away from home his wife might be the 
readier to welcome him, and come out of her vantage 
castle, and lay down her arms, cannot be said for certain ; 
probably all these motives combined to induce him to 
leave Pentyre for five or six weeks. 

While he was away Judith was lighter in heart. He 
returned shortly before Christmas, and was glad to see 
her more like her old self, with cheeks rounder, less 
livid, eyes less sunken, less like those of a hunted beast, 
and with a step that had resumed its elasticity. But he 
did not find her more disposed to receive him with affec- 
tion as a husband. He thought that probably soma 


298 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


change in the monotony of life at Pentyre might be of 
advantage, and he somewhat eagerly entered into the 
scheme for the ball at Wadebridge. She had been 
kept to books and to the society of her father too much, 
in days gone by, and had become whimsical and prudish. 
She must learn some of the enjoyments of life, and 
then she would cling to the man who opened to her a 
new sphere of happiness. 

“ Judith,” said he, “ we will certainly go to this ball. 
It will be a pleasant one. As it is for a charitable pur- 
pose, all the neighborhood will be there. Squire Hum- 
phrey Prideaux of Prideaux Place, the Matthews of Ros- 
carrock, the Molesworths of Pencarrow, and every one 
worth knowing in the country round for twelve miles. 
But you will be the queen of the ball.” 

Judith at first thought of appearing at the dance in her 
simplest evening dress ; she was shy and did not desire 
to attract attention. Her own position was anomalous, 
because that of Coppinger was anomalous. He passed 
as a gentleman in a part of the country not very exact- 
ing that the highest culture should prevail in the upper 
region of society. He had means, and he owned a small 
estate. But no one knew whence he came, or what was 
the real source whence he derived his income. Sus- 
picion attached to him as engaged in both smuggling 
and wrecking, neither of which were regarded as pro- 
fessions consonant with gentility. The result of this 
uncertainty relative to Coppinger was that he was not 
received into the best society. The gentlemen knew 
him and greeted him in the hunting-field, and would 
dine with him at his house. The ladies, of course, had 
never been invited, because he was an unmarried man. 
The gentlemen probably had dealings with him about 
which they said nothing to their wives. It is certain 
that the Bodmin wine-merchant grumbled that the great 
houses of the north of Cornwall did not patronize him 
as they ought, and that no wine-merchant was ever able 
to pick up a subsistence at Wadebridge. Yet the coun- 
try gentry were by no means given to temperance, and 
their cellars were being continually refilled. 

It was not their interest to be on bad terms with Cop- 
pinger, one must conjecture, for they went somewhat 
out of their way to be civil to him. 

Coppinger know this^ and thought that now he wa^ 


IN' THE HOAR OE THE SEA. 


299 


married an opportunity had come in this charity 
ball for the introduction of Judith to society, and that 
to the best society, and he trusted to her merits and 
beauty, and to his own influence with the gentlemen, to 
obtain for her admission to the houses of the neighbor- 
hood. As the daughter of the Kev. Peter Trevisa, who 
had been universally respected, not only as a gentleman 
and a scholar, but also as a representative of an ancient 
Cornish family of untold antiquity, she had a perfect 
right to be received into the highest society of Corn- 
wall, but her father had been a reserved and poor man. 
He did not himself care for associating with fox-hunting 
and sporting squires, nor would he accept invitations 
when he was unable to return them. Consequently 
Judith had gone about very little when at St. Enodoc 
rectory. Moreover, she had been but a child, and was 
known only by name to those who lived in the neigh- 
borhood. She was personally acquainted with none of 
the county people. 

Captain Cruel had small doubt but that, the ice once 
broken, Judith would make friends, and would be warm- 
ly received. The neighborhood was scantily peppered 
over with county family-seats, and the families found 
the winters tedious, and were glad of any accession to 
their acquaintance, and of another house opened to 
them for entertainment. 

If Judith were received well, and found distraction 
from her morbid and fantastic thoughts, then she would 
be grateful to him — so thought Coppinger— grateful for 
having brought her into a more cheerful and bright con- 
dition of life than that in which she had been reared. 
Following thereon, her aversion for him, or shyness 
toward him, would give way. 

And Judith— what were her thoughts? Her mind 
was a little fluttered, she had to consider what to wear. 
At first she would go simply clad, then her aunt insisted 
that, as a bride, she must appear in suitable garb, that 
in which she had been married, not that with the two 
sleeves for one side, which had been laid by. Then the 
question of the jewellery arose. Judith did not wish to 
wear it, but yielded to her aunt’s advice. Miss Trevisa 
represented to her that, having the diamonds, she ought 
to wear them, and that not to wear them would hurt and 
offend Captain Coppinger, who had given them to her. 


300 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


This she was reluctant to do. However, she consented 
to oblige and humor him in such a small matter. 

The night arrived, and Judith was dressed for the ball. 
Never before had Coppinger seen her in evening cos- 
tume, and his face beamed with pride as he looked on her 
in her white silk dress, with ornaments of white satiny 
bugles in siDrigs edging throat and sleeves, and forming 
a rich belt about the waist. She wore the diamond but- 
terfly in her bosom, and the two earrings to match. A lit- 
tle color was in her delicately pure cheeks, brought there 
by excitement. She had never been at a ball before, and 
with an innocent, childish simplicity she wondered what 
Oliver Menaida would think of her in her ball-dress. 

Judith and Coppinger arrived somewhat late, and 
most of those who had taken tickets were already there. 
Sir William and Lady Molesworth were there, and the 
half-brother of Sir William, John Molesworth, rector of 
St. Breock, and his wife, the daughter of Sir John S. 
Aubyn. With the baronet and his lady had come a 
friend, staying with them at Pencarrow, and Lady 
Knighton, wife of an Indian judge. The Matthews were 
there ; the Tremaynes came all the way from Heligan, 
as owning property in St. Enodoc, and so, in duty bound 
to support the charity ; the Prideauxs were there from 
Place ; and many, if not all, of the gentry of various 
degrees who resided within twelve to fifteen miles of 
Wadebridge were also there. 

The room was not one of any interest, it was long, 
had a good floor, which is the main thing considered by 
dancers, a gallery at one end for the instrumentalists, 
and a draught which circulated round the walls, and cut 
the throats of the old ladies who acted as wall-fruit. 
There was, however, a room to which they could adjourn 
to play cards. J^d many of the dowagers and old maids 
had brought with them little silver linked purses in 
which was as much money as they had made up their 
minds to lose that evening. 

The dowager Lady Molesworth in a red turban was 
talking to Lady Knighton, a lady who had been pretty, 
but whose complexion had been spoiled by Indian suns, 
and to her Sir William was offering a cup of tea. 

“ You see,” said Lady Knighton, “ how tremulous my 
hand is. I have been like this for some years — indeed 
ever since I was in this neighborhood before.” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 301 

“ I did not know yon had honored us with a visit on a 
previous occasion,” said Sir William. 

It was very different from the present, I can assure 
you,” answered the lady. “ Now it is voluntarily— then 
it was much the contrary. Now I have come among very 
dear and kind friends, then — I fell among thieves.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ It was on my return from India,” said Lady Knight- 
on. “ Look at my hand ! ” She held forth her arm, and 
showed how it shook as with palsy. “ This hand was 
firm then. I even played several games of spellikins on 
board ship on the voyage home, and. Sir William, I won 
invariabl}^ so steady was my hold of the crook, so evenly 
did I raise each of the little sticks. But ever since then 
I have had this nervous tremor that makes me dread 
holding anything.” 

“ But how came it about ? ” asked the baronet. 

“I will tell you, but^ — who is that just entered the 
room ? ” she pointed with trembling finger. 

Judith had come in along with Captain Coppinger, 
and stood near the door, the light of the wax candles 
twinkling in her bugles, glancing in flashes from her 
radiant hair. She was looking about her, and her bosom 
heaved, she sought Oliver, and he was near at hand. A 
flush of pleasure sprang into her cheeks as she caught 
his eye, and held out her hand. 

“ I demand my dance ! ” said he. 

“ No, not the first, Oliver,” she answered. 

Coppinger’s brows knit. 

“ Who is this ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh ! do you not know 1 Mr. Menaida’s son, Mr. Oliver.” 

The two men’s eyes met, their irises contracted. 

“ I think we have met before,” said Oliver. 

“ That is possible,” answered Captain Cruel, contemp- 
tuously, looking in another direction. 

'‘IVhen we met I knew you without your knowing 
me,” pursued the young man, in a voice that shook with 
anger. He had recognized the tone of the voice that had 
spoken on the wreck. 

“ Of that I, neither, have any doubt as to its possibil- 
ity. I do not recollect every Jack I encounter.” 

A moment after an idea struck him, and he turned his 
head sharply, fixed his eyes on young Menaida, and 
said, “ Where did we meet % ” 


802 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


“ ‘ Encounter ’ was your word.” 

“ Very well — encounter ? ” 

“ On Doom Bar.” 

Coppinger’s color changed. A sinister flicker came 
into his sombre eyes. 

“ Then,” said he slowly, in low vibrating tones, “ we 
shall meet again.” 

“ Certainly, we shall meet again, and conclude our — I 
use your term — ‘ encounter.’ ” 

Judith did not hear the conversation. She had been 
pounced upon bj'' Mr. Desiderius Mules. 

“Now — positively I must walk through a quadrille 
with you,” said the rector. “ This is all my affair ; it all 
springs from me, I arranged everything. I beat up 
patrons and patronesses. I stirred up the neighborhood. 
It all turns as a wheel about me as the axle. Come 
along, the band is beginning to play. You shall pos- 
itively walk through a quadrille with me.” Mr. Mules 
was not the man to be put on one side, not one to accept 
a refusal ; he carried off the bride to the head of the room 
and set her in one square. 

“Look at the decorations,” said Mr. Mules, “I de- 
signed them. I hope you will like the supper. I drew 
up the menu. I chose the wines, and I know they are 
good. The candles I got at wholesale price — because 
for a charity. What beautiful diamonds you are wear- 
ing. They are not paste, I suppose ? ” 

“I believe not.” 

“ Yet good old paste is just as iridescent as real dia- 
monds. Where did you get them? Are they family 
jewels ? I have heard that the Tre visas were great peo- 
ple at one time. Well, so were the Mules. We are 
really De Moels. We came in with the Conqueror. 
That is why I have such a remarkable Christian name. 
Desiderius is the French Desire, and a Norman Chris- 
tian name. Look at the wTeaths of laurel and holly. 
How do you like them ? ” 

“ The decorations are charming.” 

“ I am so pleased that you have come,” pursued Mr. 
Mules. “ It is your first appearance in public as Mrs. 
Captain Coppinger. I have been horribly uncomforta- 
ble about — you remember what. I have been afraid I 
had put my foot into it, and might get into hot water. 
But now you have come here, it is all right j it shows me 


IN' TEE ROAR OE THE SEA. 


303 


that you are coming round to a sensible view, and that 
to-morrow you will be at the rectory and sign the reg- 
ister. If inconvenient, I will run up with it under 
my arm to the Glaze. At what time am I likely to catch 
you both in The witnesses. Miss Trevisa and Mr. 
Menaida, one can always get at. Perhaps you will speak 
to your aunt and see that she is on the spot, and 111 
take the old fellow on my way home.” 

“ Mr. Mules, we will not talk of that now.” 

“ Come ! you must see, and be introduced to. Lady 
Molesworth.” 

In the meanwhile Lady Knighton was telling her 
story to a party round her. 

“ I was returning with my two children from India ; 
it is now some years ago. It is so sad, in the case of In- 
dians, either the parents must part from their children, 
or the mother must take her children to England and be 
parted from her husband. I brought my little ones 
back to be with my husband’s sister, who kindly under- 
took to see to them. We encountered a terrible gale as 
we approached this coast ; do you recollect the loss of 
the Andromeda 1 ” 

“ Perfectly,” answered Sir William Molesworth ; “ were 
you in that 1 ” 

“Yes, to my cost. One of my darlings so suffered 
from the exposure that she died. But, really, I do not 
think it was the wreck of the vessel which was worst. It 
was not that, not that alone, which brought this nervous 
tremor on me.” 

“ I remember that case,” said Sir William. “ It was a 
very bad one, and disgraceful to our county. We have 
recently had an ugly story of a wreck on Doom Bar, with 
suspicion of evil practices ; but nothing could be 
proved, nothing brought home to anyone. In the case of 
the Andromeda there was something of the same sort.” 

“Yes, indeed, there were evil practices. I was 
robbed.” 

“ You ! surely, Lady Knighton, it was not of you that 
the story was told ? ” 

“ If you mean the story of the diamonds, it was,” an- 
swered the Indian lady. “We had to leave the wreck, 
and carry all our portable valuables with us. I had a 
set of jewellery of Indian work, given me by Sir James 
—well, he was only plain Mr. Knighton then. It was 


304 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


rather quaint in design : there was a brooch represent^ 
ing a butterfly, and two emeralds formed the ” ^ 

“ Excuse me one moment, Lady Knighton,” said Sir 
'William. “ Here comes the new rector of St. Enodoc, 
with the bride, to introduce her to my wife. I am 
ashamed to say we have not made her acquaintance be- 
fore.” 

“ Bride ! what — his bride?” 

“ Oh, no ; the bride of a certain Captain Coppinger, 
who lives near here.” 

“ She is pretty, very pretty ; but how delicate ! ” 

Suddenly Lady Knighton sprang to her feet, with an 
exclamation so shrill and startling that the dancers 
ceased, and the conductor of the band, thinking an acci- 
dent had occurred, with his baton stopped the music. 
All attention was drawn to Lady Knighton, who, erect, 
trembling from head to foot, stood pointing with shak- 
ing finger to Judith. 

“ See ! see ! My jewels, that were tom from me ! 
Look ! ” She lifted the hair, worn low over her cheeks, 
and displayed one ear ; the lobe was torn away. 

No one stirred in the ball-room ; no one spoke. The 
fiddler stood with bow suspended over the strings, the 
flutist with fingers on all stops. Every eye was fixed 
on Judith. It was still in that room as though a ghost 
had passed through in winding-sheet.^ In this hush. 
Lady Knighton approached Judith, pointing still with 
trembling hand. 

“ I demand, whence comes that brooch ? AVhere — 
from whom did you get those earrings ? They are mine ; 
given me in India by my husband. They are Indian 
work, and not to be mistaken. They were plucked from 
me one awful night of wreck by a monster in human 
form, who came to our vessel, as we sought to leave it, 
and robbed us of our treasures. Answer me — who gave 
you those jewels ? ” 

Judith was speechless. The lights in the room died 
to feeble stars. The floor rolled like a sea under her 
feet ; the ceiling was coming down on her. 

She heard whispers, murmurs — a humming as of a 
swarm of bees approaching ready to settle on her and 
sting her. She looked round her. Every one had with- 
drawn from her. Mr. Desiderius Mules had released 
her arm, and stood back. She tried to speak, but could 


IN THE HOAR OF THE SEA. 


305 


not. Should she make the confession which would in- 
criminate her husband ? 

Then she heard a man’s deep voice, heard a step on 
the floor. In a moment an arm was round her, sustain- 
ing- her, as she tottered. 

“ I gave her the jewels. I, Curll Coppinger, of Pentyre. 
If you ask where I got them — I will tell you. I bought 
them of Willy Mann, the pedlar. I will give you any 
further information you require to-morrow. Make room ; 
my wife is frightened.” 

Then, holding her, looking haughtily, threateningly, 
from side to side, Coppinger helped Judith along — the 
whole length of the ball-room — between rows of aston- 
ished, open-eyed, mute dancers. Near the door was a 
knot of gentlemen. They sprang apart, and Coppinger 
conveyed Judith through the door, out of the light, down 
the stairs, into the open air. 


. CHAPTEB XLI. 


A DEAD -LOCK. 

The incident of the jewellery of Lady Knig’hton occa- 
sioned much talk. On the evening* of the ball it occu- 
pied the whole conversation, as the sole topic on which 
tongues could run and brains work. I say tongues run 
and brains work and not brains work and tongues run, 
for the former is the natural order in chatter. It was a 
subject that was thrashed by a hundred tongues of the 
dancers. Then it was turned over and rethrashed. Then 
it was winnowed. The chaff of the tale was blown into 
the kitchens and servants’ halls, it drifted into tap -rooms, 
where the coachmen and grooms congregated and 
drank ; and there it was rethrashed and rewinnowed. 

On the day following the ball, the jewels were re- 
turned to Lady Knighton, with a courteous letter from 
Captain Coppinger, to say that he had obtained them 
through the well-known Willy Mann, a pedlar who did 
commissions for the neighborhood, who travelled from 
Exeter along the south coast of Devon and Cornwall, 
and returned along the north coast of both counties. 

Everyone had made use of this fellow to do commis- 
sions, and trustworthy he had always proved. That was 
not a time when there was a parcels’ post, and few could 
afford the time and the money to run at every require- 
ment to the great cities, where were important shops 
when they required what could not be obtained in small 
country towns. He had been employed to match silks, 
to choose carpets, to bring medicines, to select jewellery, 
to convey love-letters. 

But Willy Mann had, unfortunately, died a month ago, 
having fallen off a wagon and broken his neck. 

Consequently it was not possible to follow up any fur- 
ther the traces of the diamond butterflies. Willy Mann, 
as was well known, had been a vehicle for conveying 
sundry valuables from ladies who had lost money at 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


307 


cards, and wanted to recoup by parting with bracelets 
and brooches. That he may have received stolen goods 
and valuables obtained from wrecks was also probable. 

So, after all the thrashing and winnowing, folks were 
no wiser than before, and no nearer the solution of the 
mystery. Some thought that Coppinger was guilty, 
others thought not, and others maintained a neutral po- 
sition. Some again thought one thing one day and the 
opposite the next, and some always agreed with the 
last speaker’s views. Whereas others again always took 
a contrary opinion to those who discussed the matter 
with them. 

Moreover, the matter went through a course much like 
a fever. It blazed out, was furious, then died away ; 
languor ensued — and it gave symptoms of disappearing. 

The general mistrust against Coppinger was deepened, 
certainly, and the men who had wine and spirits and to- 
bacco through him, resolved to have wine and spirits 
and tobacco from him, but nothing more. They would 
deal with him as a trader, and not acknowledge him as 
their social fellow. The ladies pitied Judith, they pro- 
fessed their respect for her ; but as beds are made so 
must they be lain on, and as is cooked so must be eaten. 
She had married a man whom all mistrusted, and must 
suffer accordingly; one who is associated with an in- 
fected patient is certain to be shunned as much as the 
patient. Such is the way of the world, and we cannot 
alter it, as the making of that way has not been in- 
trusted to us. On the day following the ball, Judith 
did not appear at Polzeath, nor again on the day after 
that. 

Oliver became restless. The cheerful humor, the 
merry mood that his father had professed were his, had 
deserted him. He could not endure the thought that 
one so innocent, so child-like as Judith, should have her 
fortunes linked to those of a man of whom he knew the 
worst. He could not, indeed, swear to his identity with 
the man on the wreck who had attempted to rob the 
passengers, and who had fought with him. He had no 
doubt whatever in his own mind that his adversary and 
assailant had been Coppinger, but he was led to this 
identification by nothing more tangible than the allusion 
made to Wyviil’s death, and a certain tone of voice 
which he believed he recognized. The evidence was in- 


808 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


sufficient to convict him, of that Oliver was well aware. 
He was confident, moreover, that Coppinger was the 
man who had taken the jewels from Lady Knighton ; but 
here again he was wholly unsupported by any sound 
basis of fact on which his conviction could maintain 
itself. 

Toward Coppinger he felt an implacable anger, and a 
keen desire for revenge. He would like to punish him for 
that assault on the wreck, but chiefly for the wrongs 
done to Judith. She had no champion, no protector. 
His father, as he acknowledged to himself, was a broken 
reed for one to lean on, a man of good intentions, but of a 
confused mind, of weakness of purpose, and lack of ener- 
gy. The situation of Judith was a pitiful one, and if she 
was to be rescued from it, he must rescue her. But when 
he came to consider the way and means, he found himself 
beset with difficulties. She was married after a fashion. 
It was very questionable whether the marriage was legal, 
but, nevertheless, it was known through the county that 
a marriage had taken place, Judith had gone to Cop- 
pinger’s house, and had appeared at the ball as his wife. 
If he established before the world that the marriage was 
invalid, what would she do ? How would the world re- 
gard her “? Was it possible for him to bring Coppinger 
to justice ? 

Oliver went about instituting inquiries. He endeav- 
ored to trace to their source, the rumors that circulated 
relative to Coppinger, but always without finding any- 
thing on which he could lay hold. It was made plain to 
him that Captain Cruel was but the head of a great asso- 
ciation of men, all involved in illegal practices ; men en- 
gaged in smuggling, and ready to make their profit of a 
wreck, when a wreck fell in their way. They hung togeth- 
er like bees. Touch one, and the whole hive swarmed out. 
They screened one another, were ready to give testimony 
before magistrates that would exculpate whoever of the 
gang was accused. They evaded every attempt of the 
coastguard to catch them ; they laughed at the constables 
and magistrates. Information was passed from one to 
another with incredible rapidity; they had their spies 
and their agents along the coast. The magistrates and 
country gentry, though strongly reprobating wrecking, 
and bitterly opposed to poaching, Avere of broad and gen- 
erous views regarding smuggling, and the preventive of- 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 309 

ficer complained that he did not receive that support 
from the squirearchy which he expected and had a right 
to demand. 

There were caves along the whole coast, from Land’s 
End to Hartland, and there were, unquestionably, stores 
of smuggled goods in a vast number of places, centres 
whence they were distributed. When a vessel engaged 
in the contraband trade appeared off the coast, and the 
guard were on the alert in one place, she ran a few miles 
up or down, signalled to shore, and landed her cargo be- 
fore the coastguard knew where she was. They were 
being constantly deceived by false information, and led 
away in one direction while the contraband goods were 
being conveyed ashore in an opposite quarter. 

Oliver learned much concerning this during the ensu- 
ing few days. He made acquaintance with the officer 
in command of the nearest station, and resolved to keep 
a close watch on Coppinger, and to do his utmost to ef- 
fect his arrest. When Captain Cruel was got out of the 
way, then something could be done for Judith. An op- 
portunity came in Oliver’s way of learning tidings of 
importance, and that when he least expected it. As al- 
ready said, he was wont to go about on the cliffs with 
Jamie, and after Judith ceased to appear at Mr. Me- 
naida’s cottage, in his unrest he took Jamie much with 
him, out of consideration for Judith, who, as he was well 
aware, would be content to have her brother with him, 
and kept thereby out of mischief. 

On one of these occasions he found the boy lag behind, 
become uneasy, and at last refuse to go farther. He in- 
quired the reason, and Jamie, in evident alarm, replied 
that he dare not — he had been forbidden. 

“ By whom ? ” 

“ He said he would throw me over, as he did my dog- 
gie, if I came here again.” 

“ Who did ? ” 

“ Captain Coppinger.” 

“ But why ? ” 

Jamie was frightened, and looked round. 

“ I mustn’t say,” he answered, in a whisper. 

“Must not say what, Jamie ? ” 

“ I was to let no one know about it.” 

“ About what ? ” 

“I am afraid to say. He would throw me over. I 


310 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


found it out and showed it to Ju. I have never been 
down there since.” 

“ Captain Copping’er found you somewhere, and for- 
bade your ever going to that place again ? ” 

“ Yes,” in a faltering voice. 

‘‘ And threatened to fling you over the cliffs if you did ? ” 

“ Yes,” again timidly. 

Oliver said quietly, “ Now run home and leave me 
here.” 

“ I daren’t go by myself. I did not mean to come 
here.” 

“ Very w^ell. No one has seen you. Let me see, this 
wall marks the spot. I will go back with you.” 

Oliver was unusually silent as he walked to Polzeath 
with Jamie. He was unwilling further to press the boy. 
He would probably confuse him, by throwing him into a 
paroxysm of alarm. He had gained sufficient informa- 
tion for his purpose from the few words he let drop. “I 
have never been down there since,” Jamie had said. There 
was, then, something that Coppinger desired should not 
be generally known concealed between the point on the 
clift* where the “new-take” wall ended and the beach im- 
mediately beneath. 

He took Jamie to his father, and got the old man to 
give him some setting up of birds to amuse and occupy 
him, and then returned to the cliff. It did not take him 
long to discover the entrance to the cave beneath, be- 
hind the curtain of slate reef, and as he penetrated this 
to the farthest point, he was placed in possession of one 
of the secrets of Coppinger and his band. 

He did not tarry there, but returned home another way, 
musing over what he had learned, and considering what 
advantage he was to take of it. A very little thought 
satisfied him that his wisest course was to say nothing 
about what he had learned, and to await the turns of 
fortune, and the incautiousness of the smugglers. 

From this time, moreover, he discontinued his visits to 
the coastguard station, which was on the farther side of 
the estuary of the Camel, and which could not well be 
crossed without attracting attention. There was no 
trusting anyone, Oliver felt — the boatman who put him 
across was very possibly in league with the smugglers, 
and was a spy on those who were in communication with 
the officers of the revenue. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 311 

Another reason for his cessation of visits was that, on 
his return to his father’s house, after having* explored 
the cave, and the track in the face of the did* leading to 
it, he heard that Jamie had been taken away by Coppin- 
ger. The Captain had been there during his absence, 
and had told Mr. Menaida that Judith was distressed at 
being separated from her brother, and that, as there were 
reasons which made him desire that she should forego 
her walks to Polzeath, he. Captain Coppinger, deemed it 
advisable to bring Jamie back to Pentyre. 

Oliver asked himself, when he heard this, with some 
unease, whether this was due to his having been observed 
with the boy on the downs near the place from which 
access to the cave was had. Also, whether the boy would 
be frightened at the appearance of Captain Cruel so soon 
after he had approached the forbidden spot, and, in his 
fear, reveal that he had been there with Oliver and had 
partially betrayed the secret. 

There was another question he was also constrained 
to ask himself, and it was one that made the color flash 
into his cheek. What was the particular reason why 
Captain Coppinger objected to the visits of his wife 
to Polzeath at that time 1 Was he jealous ? He re- 
called the flare in his eyes at the ball, when Judith 
turned to him, held out her hand, and called him by his 
Christian name. 

Prom this time all communication with Pentyre Glaze 
was cut off; tidings relative to Judith and Jamie were 
not to be had. Judith was not seen. Aunt Dionysia 
rarely, and from her nothing was to be learned. It would 
hardly comport with discretion for inquiries to be made 
by Oliver of the servants of the Glaze ; but his father, 
moved by Oliver and by his own anxiety, did venture to 
go to the house and ask after Judith. He was coldly 
received by Miss Trevisa, who took the opportunity to 
insult him by asking if he had come to have his bill set- 
tled — there being a small account in his favor for J amie. 
She paid him, and sent the old fellow fuming, stamping, 
even swearing, home, and as ignorant of the condition of 
Judith as when he went. He had not seen Judith, nor 
had he met Captain Coppinger. He had caught a glimpse 
of Jamie in the yard with his donkey, but the moment 
the boy saw him he dived into the stable, and did not 
emerge from it till Uncle Zachie was gone. 


312 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Then Mr. Menaida, still ur^ed by his son and by his 
own feelings, incapable of action unless goaded by these 
double spurs, went to the rectory to ask Mr. Mules if he 
had seen Judith, and whether anything had been done 
about the signatures. in the register. 

Mr. Desiderius was communicative. 

He had been to Pen tyre about the matter. He was, as 
he said, “in a stew over it” himself. It was most 
awkward ; he had filled in as much as he could of the reg- 
ister, and all that lacked were the signatures — he might 
say all but that of the bride and Mr. Menaida, for there 
had been a scene. Mrs. Coppinger had come down, and, 
in the presence of the Captain and her aunt, he had ex- 
postulated with her, had pointed out to her the awkward 
position in which it placed himself, the scruple he felt 
at retaining the fee, when the work was only half done ; 
how, that by appearing at the ball, she had shown to the 
whole neighborhood that she was the wife of Captain 
Coppinger, and that, having done this, she might as 
well append her name to the entry in the register. Then 
Captain Coppinger and Miss Trevisa had made the 
requisite entries, but Judith had again calmly, but reso- 
lutely, refused. 

Mr. Mules admitted there had been a scene. Mr. 
Coppinger became angry, and used somewhat violent 
words. But nothing that he himself could say, no rep- 
resentations made by her aunt, no urgency on the part of 
her husband could move the resolution of Judith, “which 
was a bit of arrant tomfoolery,” said Mr. Desiderius, 
“ and I told her so. Even that — the knowledge that she 
went down a peg in my estimation — even that did not 
move her.” 

“ And how was she ? ” asked Mr. Menaida. 

“ Obstinate,” answered the rector, “ obstinate as a — 
I mean as a donkey, that is the position of affairs. We 
are at a dead-lock/’ 


CHAPTEE Xm. 


TWO LETTEKS. 

Oliver Menaida was summoned to Bristol by the heads 
of the firm which he served, and he was there detained 
for ten days. 

Whilst he was away, Uncle Zachie felt his solitude 
greatly. Had he had even Jamie with him he might have 
been content, but to be left completely alone was a trial 
to him, especially since he had become accustomed to 
having the young Trevisa in his house. He missed his 
music. Judith’s playing had been to him an inexpressi- 
bly great delight. The old man for many years had gone 
on strumming and fumbling at music by great masters, 
incapable of executing it, and unwilling to hear it 
performed by incompetent instrumentalists. At length 
Judith had seated herself at his piano, and had brought 
into life all that wondrous world of melody and harmony 
which he had guessed at, believed in, yearned for, but 
never reached. And now that he was left without her to 
play to him, he felt like one deprived of a necessary of 
life. 

But his unrest did not spring solely from a selfish mo- 
tive. He was not at ease in his mind about her. Why 
did he not see her anymore ? Why was she confined to 
Pentyre? Was she ill? Was she restrained there 
against her will from visiting her old friends? Mr. 
Menaida was very unhappy because of J udith. He knew 
that she was resolved never to acknowledge Coppinger 
as her real husband ; she did not love him, she shrank 
from him. And knowing what he did — the story of the 
invasion of the wreck, the fight with Oliver — he felt that 
there was no brutality, no crime which Coppinger was 
not capable of committing, and he trembled for the hap- 
piness of the poor little creature who was in his hands. 
Weak and irresolute though Mr. Menaida was, he was 
peppery and impulsive when irritated, and his temper 


314 IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 

had been roused by the manner of his reception at the 
Glaze, when he went there to inquire after Judith. 

Whilst engaged on his birds, his hand shook, so that he 
could not shape them aright. AVhen he smoked his pipe, 
he pulled it from between his lips every moment to 
growl out some remark. When he sipped his grog, he 
could not enjoy it. He had a tender heart, and he had 
become warmly attached to Judith. He firmly believed 
in identification of the ruffian with whom Oliver had 
fought on the deck, and it was horrible to think that the 
poor child was at his mercy ; and that she had no one to 
counsel and to help her. 

At length he could endure the suspense no longer. 
One evening, after he had drank a good many glasses of 
rum and water, he jumped up, put on his hat, and went 
off to Pentyre, determined to insist on seeing Judith. 

As he approached the house he saw that the hall win- 
dows were lighted up. He knew which was Judith’s 
room, from what she had told him of its position. There 
was a light in that window also. Uncle Zachie, flushed 
with anger against Coppinger, and with the spirits he 
had drank, anxious about Judith, and resenting the way 
in which he had been treated, went boldly up to the front 
door and knocked. A maid answered his knock, and he 
asked to see Mrs. Coppinger. The woman hesitated, and 
bade him be seated in the porch. She would go and see. 

Presently Miss Trevisa came, and shut the door behind 
her, as she emerged into the porch. 

“ I should like to see Mrs. Coppinger,” said the old 
man. 

“ I am sorry — you cannot,” answered Miss Trevisa. 

“ But why not % ” 

“ This is not a fit hour at which to call.” 

“ May I see her if I come at any other hour ? ” 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Wliy may I not see her ? ” 

“ She is unwell.” 

“ If she is unwell, then I am very certain she would be 
glad to see Uncle Zachie.” 

“ Of that I am no judge, but you cannot be admitted 
now.” 

“ Name the day, the hour, when I may.” 

“ That I am not at liberty to do.” 

“ What ails her ? Where is Jamie,” 


IN THE ROAR OE THE SEA. 


815 


“ Jamie is here — in good hands.” 

“ And Judith.” 

“ She is in good hands.” 

“ In good hands ! ” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “ I should 
like to see the good, clean hands worn by anyone in this 
house, except my dear, innocent little Judith. I must 
and will see her. I must know from her own lips how 
she is. I must see that she is happy — or at least not 
maltreated.” 

“ Your words are an insult to me, her aunt, and to 
Captain Coppinger, her husband,” said Miss Trevisa, 
haughtily. 

“ Let me have a word with Captain Coppinger.” 

“He is not at home.” 

“ Not at home ! — hear a great deal of noise. There 
must be a number of guests in the hall. Who is enter- 
taining them, you or Judith % ” 

“ That is no concern of yours, Mr. Menaida.” ^ 

“ I do not believe that Captain Coppinger is not at 
home. I insist on seeing him.” 

“ Were you to see him — you would regret it afterwards. 
He is not a person to receive impertinences and pass 
them over. You have already behaved in a most inde- 
cent manner, in encouraging my niece to visit your 
house, and sit, and talk, and walk with, and call by his 
Christian name, that young fellow, your son.” 

“ Oliver! ” Mr. Menaida was staggered. It had never 
occurred to his fuddled, yet simple mind, that the in- 
timacy that had sprung up between the young people 
was capable of misinterpretation. The sense that he 
had laid himself open to this charge made him very 
angry, not with himself, but with Coppinger and with 
Miss Trevisa. 

“ 111 tell you what,” said the old man, “ if you will not 
let me in I suppose you will not object to my writing a 
line to Judith ? ” 

“ I have received orders to allow of no communication 
of any kind whatsoever between my niece and you or 
your house.” 

“You have received orders— from Coppinger?” the 
old man flamed with anger. “ Wait a bit ! There is no 
command issued that you are not to take a message from 
me to your master ? ” 

He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a note-book. 


316 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


and tore out of it a pag’e. Then, by the light from the 
hall window, he scribbled on it a few lines in pencil. 

‘‘ Sir ! — You are a scoundrel. You bully your wife. 
You rob, and attempt to murder those who are ship- 
wrecked. Zachary Menaida.” 

“ There,” said the old man, “ that will draw him, and I 
shall see him, and have it out with him.” 

He had wafers in his pocket-book. He wetted and 
sealed the note. Then he considered that he had not 
said enough, so he opened the page again, and added : 
“I shall tell all the world what I know about you.” 
Then he fastened the note again, and directed it. But 
as it suddenly occurred to him that Captain Coppinger 
might refuse to open the letter, he added on the outside, 
“ The contents I know by heart, and shall proclaim them 
on the house-tops.” He thrust the note into Miss Tre- 
visa’s hand, and turned his back on the house, and 
walked home snorting and muttering. On reaching 
Polzeath, however, he had cooled, and thought that 
possibly he had done a very foolish thing, and that 
most certainty he had in no way helped himself to what 
he desired, to see Judith again. Moreover, with a qualm, 
he became aware that Oliver, on his return from Bristol, 
would in all probability greatly disapprove of this fiery 
outburst of temper. To what would it lead 1 Could he 
fight Captain Coppinger ? If it came to that, he was 
ready. With all his faults Mr. Menaida was no coward. 

On entering his house he found Oliver there, just 
arrived from Camelford. He at once told him what he 
had done. Oliver did not reproach him ; he merely said, 
“A declaration of war, father! and a declaration before 
we are quite prepared.” 

“ Well — I suppose so. I could not help myself. I was 
so incensed.” 

“ The thing we have to consider,” said Oliver, “ is 
what Judith wishes, and how it is to be carried out. 
Some communication must be opened with her. If she 
desires to leave the house of that fellow, we must get 
her away. If, however, she elects to remain, our hands 
are tied : we can do nothing.” 

“ It is very unfortunate that Jamie is no longer here ; 
we could have sent her a letter through him.” 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 317 

"‘He has been removed to prevent anything* of the 
sort taking place.” 

Then Oliver started up. “I will go and reconnoitre, 
myself.” 

“ No,” said the father. “Leave all to me. You must 
on no account meddle in this matter.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because ” — the old man coughed. “ Do you not un- 
derstand — you are a young man.” 

Oliver colored, and said no more. He had not great 
confidence in his father’s being able to do anything 
effectual for Judith. The step he had recently taken 
was injudicious and dangerous, and could further the 
end in view in no way. 

He said no more to old Mr. Menaida, but he resolved 
to act himself, in spite of the remonstrance made and the 
objection raised by his father. No sooner was the elder 
man gone to bed, than he sallied forth and took the 
direction of Pentyre. It was a moonlight night. Clouds 
indeed rolled over the sky, and for awhile obscured the 
moon, but a moment after it flared forth again. A little 
snow had fallen and frosted the ground, making every- 
thing unburied by the white flakes to seem inky black. 
A cold wind whistled mournfully over the country. Oli- 
ver walked on, not feeling the cold, so glowing were his 
thoughts, and came within sight of the Glaze. His 
father had informed him that there were guests in the 
hall ; but when he approached the house, he could see 
no lights from the windows. Indeed, the whole house 
was dark, as though everyone in it were asleep, or it 
were an uninhabited ruin. That most of the windows 
had shutters he was aware, and that these might be shut 
so as to exclude the chance of any ray issuing he also 
knew. He could not therefore conclude that all the 
household had retired for the night. 

The moon was near its full. It hung high aloft in an 
almost cloudless sky. The air was comparatively still 
— still it never is on that coast, nor is it ever unthrilled 
by sound. Now, above the throb of the ocean, could be 
heard the shrill clatter and cry of the gulls. They were 
not asleep ; they were about, fishing or quarrelling in 
the silver light. 

Oliver rather wondered at the house being so hushed 
—wondered that the' guests were all dismissed. He 


318 


IN THE BOAB OF TEE SEA. 


knew in whicli wing of the mansion was Judith’s room, 
and also which was Judith’s window. The pure white 
light shone on the face of the house and glittered in the 
window-panes. 

As Oliver looked, thinking and wondering, he saw the 
casement opened, and Judith appeared at it, leaned with 
her elbow on the sill, and rested her face in her hand, 
looking up at the moon. The light air just lifted her 
fine hair. Oliver noticed how delicately pale and fragile 
she seemed — white as a gull, fragile as porcelain. He 
would not disturb her for a moment or two ; he stood 
watching, with an oppression on his heart, and with a 
film forming over his eyes. Could nothing be done for 
the little creature? She was moped up in her room. 
She was imprisoned in this house, and she was wasting, 
dying in confinement. 

And now he stole noiselessly nearer. There was an old 
cattle-shed adjoining the house, that had lost its roof. 
Coppinger concerned himself little about agriculture, 
and the shed that had once housed cows had been suf- 
fered to fall to ruin, the slates had been blown off, then 
the rain had wetted and rotted the rafters, and finally 
the decayed rafters had fallen with their remaining load 
of slates, leaving the walls alone standing. 

Up one of the sides of this ruinous shed Oliver 
climbed, and then mounted to the gable, whence he 
could speak to Judith. But she must have heard him, 
and been alarmed, for she hastily closed the casement. 
Oliver, however, did not abandon his purpose. He 
broke off particles of mortar from the gable of the cow- 
house and threw them cautiously against the window. 
No notice was taken of the first or the second particle 
that dickered against a pane ; but at the third a shadow 
appeared at the window, as though Judith had come to 
the casement to look out. Oliver was convinced that 
he could be seen, as he was on the very summit of the 
gable, and he raised his hands and arms to ensure atten- 
tion. 

Suddenly the shadow was withdrawn. Then hastily 
he drew forth a scrap of paper, on which he had writ- 
ten a few words before he left his father’s house, in 
the hopes of obtaining a chance of passing it to Judith, 
through Jamie, or by bribing a servant. This he now 
wrapped round a bit of stone and fastened it with a 


JiV THE ROAn OF THE SEA, 


319 


thread. Next moment the casement was opened and 
the shadow reappeared. 

“Back!” whispered Oliver, sufficiently loud to be 
heard, and he dexterously threw the stone and the letter 
through the open window. 

Next moment the casement was shut and the curtains 
were drawn. 

He waited for full a quarter of an hour but no answer 
was returned. 


CHAPTEE XLin. 

THE SECOND TIME. 


No sooner had Oliver thrown the stone with note tied 
round it into Judith’s room through the window, than 
he descended from a position which he esteemed too 
conspicuous should anyone happen to be about in the 
night near the house. He ensconced himself beneath 
the cow-shed wall in the shadow, where concealed, but 
was ready should the casement open to step forth and 
show himself. 

He had not been there many minutes before he heard 
steps and voices, one of which he immediately recognized 
as that of Cruel Coppinger. Oliver had not been suffi- 
ciently long in the neighborhood to know the men in it 
by their voices, but looking round the corner of the wall 
he saw two figures against the horizon, one with hands 
in his pockets, and by the general slouch, he thought 
that he recognized the sexton of S. Enodoc. 

“ The Black Prince will be in before long,” said Cop- 
pinger. “ I mean next week or fortnight, and I must 
have the goods shored here, this time. She will stand 
off Porth-leze, and mind you get information conveyed 
to the captain of the coastguard that she will run her 
cargo there. Eemember that. We must have a clear 
coast here. The stores are empty and must be refilled.” 

“ Yes, your honor.” 

“You have furnished him with the key to the sig- 
nals ? ” 

“Yes, Cap’n.” 

“ And from Porth-leze there are to be signals to the 
Black Prince to come on here — but so that they may be 
read the other way — you understand ? ” 

“ Yes, Cap’n.” 

“ And what do they give you every time you carry 
them a bit of information ? ” 

“ A shilling.” 


TK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 821 

“A mnnificent g-overnment payment! and what did 
they g'ive you for the false code of signals ? ” 

Half a crown.” 

“ Then here is half a guinea — and a crown for every lie 
you impose on them.” 

Then Coppinger and the sexton went further. As soon 
as Oliver thought he could escape unobserved he with- 
drew and returned to Polzeath. 

Next day he had a talk with his father. 

“ I have had opinions, in Bristol,” said he, relative to 
the position of Judith.” 

“ From whom ? ” 

“ From lawyers.” 

“ Well — and what did they say ? ” 

“ One said one thing and one another. I stated the 
case of her marriage, its incompletion, the unsigned 
register, and one opinion was that nevertheless she was 
Mrs. Coppinger. ^ But another opinion was that, in con- 
sequence of the incompleteness of the marriage, it was 
none — she was Miss Trevisa. Father, before I went to 
the barristers and obtained their opinions, I was as wise 
as I am now, for I knew then, what I know now, that she 
is either Mrs. Coppinger, or else that she is Miss Tre- 
visa.” 

“ I could have told you as much.” 

“ It seems to me — but I may be uncharitable,” said 
Oliver, grimly, “ that the opinion given was this way 
or that way according as I showed myself interested 
for the legality or against the legality of the mar- 
riage. Both of those to whom I applied regarded the 
case as interesting and deserving of being thrashed out 
in a court of law, and gave their opinions so as to induce 
me to embark in a suit. You understand what I mean, 
father ? When I seemed urgent that the marriage should 
be pronounced none at all, then the verdict of the con- 
sulting barrister was that it was no marriage at all, and 
very good reasons he was able to produce to show that. 
But when I let it be supposed that my object was to get 
this marriage established against certain parties keenly 
interested in disputing it, I got an opinion that it was a 
good and legal marriage, and very good reasons were 
produced to sustain this conclusion.” 

“ I could have told you as much— and this has cost you 
money ? ” 


322 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Yes — naturally.” 

“ And left you without any satisfaction ? ” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ No satisfaction is to be got out of law — that is why I 
took to stuffing birds.” 

“ What is that noise at the door ? ” asked Oliver. 

“ There is some one trying to come in, and fumbling at 
the hasp,” said his father. 

Oliver went to the door and opened it — to find Jamie 
there, trembling, white, and apparently about to faint. 
He could not speak, but he held out a note to Oliver. 

“What is the matter with you?” asked the young 
man.” 

The boy, however, did not answer, but ran to Mr. Men- 
aida, and crouched behind him. 

“ He has been frightened,” said the old man. “ Leave 
him alone. He will come round presently and I will 
give him a drop of spirits to rouse him up. What letter 
is that ? ” 

Oliver looked at the little note given him. It had 
been sealed, but torn open afterward. It was addressed 
to him, and across the address was written in bold, 
coarse letters with a pencil, “ Seen and passed. C. C.” 
Oliver opened the letter and read as follows : 

“ I pray you leave me. Do not trouble yourself about 
me. Nothing can now be done for me. My great con- 
cern is for Jamie. But I entreat you to be very cautious 
about yourself where you go. You are in danger. Your 
life is threatened, and you do not know it. I must not 
explain myself, but I warn you. Go out of the country 
— that would be best. Go back to Portugal. I shall not 
be at ease in my mind till I know that you are gone, and 
gone unhurt. My dear love to Mr. Menaida — Judith.” 

The hand that had written this letter had shaken, the 
letters were hastily and imperfectly formed. Was this 
the hand of Judith who had taught Jamie caligraphy, 
had written out his copies as neatly and beautifully as 
copper plate ? 

Judith had sent him this answer by her brother, and 
Jamie had been stopped, forced to deliver up the missive, 
which Coppinger had opened and read. Oliver did not 
for a moment doubt whence the danger sprang with 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


323 


which he was menaced. Coppin^er had surored the 
warning- to be conveyed to him with contemptuous in- 
ditference— it was as though he had scored across the 
letter — “ Be forewarned, take what precautions you will 
— you shall not escape me.” 

The first challenge had come from old Menaida, but 
Coppinger passed over that as undeserving of attention, 
but he proclaimed his readiness to cross swords with the 
young man. And Oliver could not deny that he had given 
occasion for this. Without counting the cost, without 
considering the risk ; nay, further, without weighing the 
right and wrong in the matter, Oliver had allowed him- 
self to slip into terms of some familiarity with Judith, 
harmless enough were she unmarried, but hardly calcu- 
lated to be so regarded by a husband. They had come 
to consider each other as cousins, or they had pretended 
so to consider each other, so as to justify a half-affection- 
ate, half -intimate association, and before he was aware of 
it Oliver had lost his heart. He could not and he would 
not regard Judith as the wife of Coppinger, because he 
knew that she absolutely refused to be so regarded by 
him, by herself, by his father, though by appearing at 
the ball with Coppinger, by living in his house, she 
allowed the world to so consider her. Was she his wife ? 
He could not suppose it when she had refused to con- 
clude the marriage ceremony, when there was no docu- 
mentary evidence for the marriage. Let the question 
be mooted in a court of law ; what could the witnesses 
say, but that she had fainted, and that all the latter por- 
tion of the ceremony had been performed over her wdien 
unconscious, and that on her recovery of her faculties 
she had resolutely persisted in resistance to the afiixing 
of her signature to the register. 

With respect to Judith’s feelings toward himself Oliver 
was ignorant. She had taken pleasure in his society, 
because he had made himself agreeable to her, and his 
company was a relief to her after the solitude of Pen- 
tyre and the association there with persons with whom 
she was wholly out of sympathy. 

His quarrel with Coppinger had shifted ground. At 
first he had resolved, should occasion offer, to conclude 
with him the contest begun on the Avreck, and to chas- 
tise him for his conduct on that night. Noav, he thought 
little of that cause of resentment, he desired to punish 


324 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


him for having been the. occasion of so much misery to 
Judith. He could not now drive from his head the 
scene of the girl’s wan face at the window, looking up 
at the moon. 

Oliver would shrink from doing anything dishonor- 
able, but it did not seem to him that there could be 
aught wrong and unbecoming a gentleman in endeavor- 
ing to snatch this hapless child from the claws of the 
wild beast that had struck it down. 

“ No, father,” said he hastily, as the old fellow was 
pouring out a pretty strong dose of his great specific 
and about to administer it to Jamie, “no father, it is 
not that the boy wants ; and remember how strongly 
Judith objects to his being given spirits.” 

“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Uncle Zachie, “to be sure 
she does, and she made me promise not to give him any. 
But this is an exceptional case.” 

“ Let him come to me, I will soothe him. The child 
is frightened, or stay, get him to help you with that 
kittiwake, Jamie, father can’t get the bird to look nat- 
ural ; his head does not seem to me to be right. Did you 
ever see a kittiwake turn his neck in that fashion “? I 
wish you would put your fingers to the throat, and bend it 
about, and set the wadding where it ought to be. Father 
and I can’t agree about it.” 

“ It is wrong,” said Jamie. “ Look, this is the way.” 
His mind was diverted. Always volatile, always ready 
to be turned from one thing to another, Oliver had suc- 
ceeded in interesting him, and had made him forget for 
a moment the terrors that had shaken him. 

After Jamie had been in the house for half an hour, 
Oliver advised him to return to the Glaze. He would 
give him no message, verbal or written. But the 
thought of having to return renewed the poor child’s 
fears, and Oliver could hardly allay them by promising 
to accompany him part of the way. 

Oliver was careful not to speak to him on the subject 
of his alarm, but he gathered from his disjointed talk 
that Judith had given him the note and impressed on 
him that it was to be delivered as secretly as possible ; 
that Coppinger had intercepted him, and suspecting 
something, had threatened and frightened him into 
divulging the truth. Then Captain Cruel had read the 
letter, scored over it some words in pencil, given it back 


IN' THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


825 


to him, and ordered him to fulfil his commission, to de- 
liver the note. 

^ “Look you here, Jamie,” was Mr, Menaida’s parting* 
injunction to the lad as he left the house, “ there’s no 
reason for you to be idle when at Pen tyre. You can 
make friends with some of the men and get birds shot. 
I don’t advise your having a gun, you are not careful 
enough.^ But if they shoot birds you may amuse your 
leisure in skinning them, and I gave Judith arsenic for 
you. She keeps it in her workbox, and will let you have 
sufficient for your purpose as you need it. I would not 
give it to' you, as it might be dangerous in your hands 
as a gun. It is a deadly poison, and with carelessness 
you might kill a man. But go to Judith when you have 
a skin ready to dress and she will see that you have suf- 
ficient for the dressing. There, good-by, and bring me 
some skins shortly.” 

Oliver accompanied the boy as far as the gate that 
led into the lane between the walls enclosing the fields 
of the Pentyre estate. Jamie pressed him to come far- 
ther, but this the young man would not do. He bade the 
poor lad farewell, bid him divert himself as his father 
had advised, with bird stuffing, and remained at the gate 
watching him depart. The boy’s face and feebleness 
touched and stirred the heart of Oliver. The face re- 
minded him so strongly of his twin sister, but it was the 
shadow, the pale shadow of J udith only, without the in- 
telligence, the character, and the force. And the help- 
lessness of the child, his desolation, his condition of 
nervous alarm roused the young man’s pity. He was 
startled by a shot, that struck his gray hat simul- 
taneously with the report. 

In a moment he sprang over the hedge in the direc- 
tion whence the smoke rose, and came upon Cruel Cop- 
pinger with a gun. 

“ Oh, you ! ” said the latter, with a sneer, “I thought 
I was shooting a rabbit.” 

“ This is the second time,” said Oliver. 

“ The first,” was Coppinger’s correction. 

“Not so — the second time you have levelled at me. 
The first was on the wreck when I struck up your hand.” 

Coppinger shrugged his shoulders. “ It is immaterial 
The third time is lucky, folks say.” 

The two men looked at each other with hostility. 


326 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Your father has insulted me,” said Coppinger. “Are 
you ready to take up his cause ? I will not fight an old 
fool.” 

“ I am ready to take up his cause, mine also, and that 
of ” Oliver checked himself. 

“ And that of whom % ” asked Coppinger, white with 
rage, and in a quivering voice. 

‘‘The cause of my father and mine own will suffice,” 
said Oliver. 

“And when shall we meet?” asked Captain Cruel, 
leaning on his gun and glaring at his young antagonist 
over it. 

“ When and where suits me,” answered Oliver, coldly. 

“ And when and where may that be ? ” 

“ When and where ! — when and where I can come sud- 
denly on you as you came on me upon the wreck. With 
S7ich as you — one does not observe the ordinary rules.” 

“ Very well,” shouted Coppinger. “ When and where 
suits you, and when and where suits me — that is, when- 
ever we meet again — we meet finally.” 

Then each turned and strode away. 


CHAPTEE XLIV. 

THE WHIP FALLS. 

For many days Judith had been as a prisoner in the 
house, in her room. Some one had spoken to Coppin- 
g-er and had roused his suspicions, excited his jealousy. 
He had forbidden her visits to Polzeath ; and to prevent 
communication between her and the Menaidas, father 
and son, he had removed Jamie to Pen tyre Glaze. 

Angry and jealous he was. Time had passed, and still 
he had not advanced a step, rather he had lost ground. 
Judith’s hopes that he was not what he had been repre- 
sented, were dashed. However plausible might be his 
story to account for the jewels, she did not believe it. 

Why was Judith not submissive? Coppinger could 
now only conclude that she had formed an attachment 
for Oliver Menaida — for that young man whom she 
singled out, greeted with a smile, and called by his 
Christian name. He had heard of how she had made 
daily visits to the house of his father, how Oliver had 
been seen attending her home, and his heart foamed 
with rage and jealousy. 

She had no desire to go anywhere, now that she was 
forbidden to go to Polzeath, and when she knew that she 
was watched. She would not descend to the hall and mix 
with the company often assembled there, and though she 
occasionally went there when Coppinger was alone, took 
her knitting and sat by the fire, and attempted to make 
conversation about ordinary matters, yet his temper, his 
outbursts of rancor, his impatience of every other topic 
save their relations to ^ach other, and his hatred of the 
Menaidas, made it intolerable for her to be with him 
alone, and she desisted from seeking the hall. This in- 
censed him, and he occasionally went upstairs, sought 
her out and insisted on her coming down. She would 
obey, but some outbreak would speedily drive her from 
his presence again. 

Their relations were more strained than ever. His 


328 


J2V THE ROAB OF THE SEA. 


love for her had lost the complexion of love and had as. 
sumed that of jealousy. His tenderness and g-entleness 
toward her had been fed by hope, and when hope died 
they vanished. Even that reverence for her innocence 
and the respect for her character that he had shown 
was dissipated by the stormy g-usts of jealousy. 

Miss Trevisa was no more a heljj and stay to the poor 
girl than she had been previously. She was soured 
and embittered, for her ambition to be out of the house 
and in Othello Cottage had been frustrated. Coppin- 
ger would not let her go till he and his wife had come 
to more friendly terms. On her chimney-piece were 
two bunches of lavender, old lavender from the recto- 
ry garden of the preceding year. They had become so 
dry that the seeds fell out, and they no longer exhaled 
scent unless pressed. 

Judith stood at her chimney-piece pressing her finger 
on the dropped seeds, and picking them up by this 
means to throw them into the small fire that smoul- 
dered in the grate. At first she went on listlessly pick- 
ing up a seed and casting it into the fire, actuated by 
her innate love of order, without much thought — rather 
without any thought — for her mind was engaged over the 
letter of Oliver and his visit the previous night outside. 
But after a while, while thus gathering the grains of 
lavender, she came to associate them with her trouble, 
and as she thought — “ Is there any escape for me, any 
happiness in store ? ” — she picked up a seed and cast it 
into the fire. Then she asked : “Is there any other es- 
cape for me than to die — to die and be with dear papa 
again, now not in S. Enodoc Rectory garden, but in the 
garden of Paradise ? ” And again she picked up and 
cast away a grain. Then, as she touched her finger-tip 
with her tongue and applied it to another lavender seed, 
she said : “Or must this go on — this nightmare of 
wretchedness, of persecution, of weariness to death with- 
out dying, for years ? ” And she cast away the seed 
shudderingly. “ Or ” — and again, now without touching 
her finger with her tongue, as though the last thought 
had contaminated it — “ or will he finally break and sub- 
due me, destroy me and .lamie, soul and body ? ” Shiv- 
ering at the thought she hardly dare to touch a seed, 
but forced herself to do so, raised one, and hastily shook 
it from her. 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


329 


Thus she continued ringing the change, never formu- 
lating any scheme of happiness for herself — certainly, in 
her white, guileless mind, not in any way associating 
Oliver with happiness, save as one who might by some 
means effect her discharge from this bondage — but he 
was not linked, not woven up with any thought of the 
future. 

The wind dickered at the casement. She had a win- 
dow toward the sea ; another, opposite, toward the land. 
Her’s was a transparent chamber, and her mind had 
been transparent. Only now, timidly, doubtfully, not 
knowing herself why, did she draw a blind down over 
her soul, as though there were something there that she 
would not have all the world see, and yet which was in 
itself innocent. Then a new fear woke up in her, lest 
she should go mad. Day after day, night after night, 
was spent in the same revolution of distressing thought, 
in the same bringing up and reconsidering of old diffi- 
culties, questions concerning Coppinger, questions con- 
cerning Jamie, questions concerning her own power of 
endurance and resistance. Was it possible that this 
could go on without driving her mad ? 

“One thing I see,” murmured she; “all steps are 
broken away under me on the stair, and one thing alone 
remains for me to cling to — one only thing — my under- 
standing. That” — she put her hands to her head — 
“ that is all I have left. My name is gone from me. My 
friends I am separated from. My brother may not be 
with me. My happiness is all gone. My health may 
break down, but to a clear understanding I must hold ; 
if that fails me I am lost — lost indeed.” 

“ Lost indeed ! ” exclaimed Coppinger, entering ab- 
ruptly. He had caught her last words. He came in in 
white rage, blinded and forgetful in his passion, and 
with his hat on. There was a day when he entered the 
boudoir with his head covered, and Judith, without a 
word, by the mere force of her character shining out of 
her clear eyes, had made him retreat and uncover. It 
was not so now. She was careless whether he wore the 
hat or not when he entered her room. “ So ! ” said he, 
in a voice that foamed out of his mouth, “ letters pass 
between you ! Letters — I have read that you sent. I 
stayed your messenger.” 

“ Well,” answered Judith, with such composure as sho 


830 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


could muster. She had already passed through several 
stormy sceues with him, and knew that her only ^ secur- 
ity lay in self-restraint. “ There was naught in it that 
you might not read. What did I say ? That my con- 
dition was fixed — that none could alter it that is true. 
That my great care and sorrow of heart is for J amie ; 
that is true. That Oliver Menaida has been threatened ; 
that also is true. I have heard you speak words against 
him of no good.” 

“ I will make good my words.” 

“ I wrote, and hoped to save him from a danger, and 
you from a crime.” 

Coppinger laughed. “ I have sent on the letter. Let 
him take what precautions he will. I will chastise him. 
No man ever crossed me yet but was brought to bite the 
dust.” 

“ He has not harmed you, Captain Coppinger.” 

“ He ! Can I endure that you should call him by his 
Christian name, while I am but Captain Coppinger? 
That you should seek him out, laugh, and talk, and flirt 
with him ” 

“ Captain Coppinger ! ” 

“Yes,” raged he, “always Captain Coppinger, or 
Captain Cruel, and he is dear Oliver ! sweet Oliver ! ” 
He well-nigh suffocated in his fury. 

Judith drew herself up and folded her arms. She had 
in one hand a sprig of lavender from which she had been 
shaking the over-ripe grains. She turned deadly white. 

“ Give me up his letter. Your’s was an answer ! ” 

“ I will give it to you,” answered Judith, and she went 
to her workbox, raised the lid, then the little tray con- 
taining reels, and from beneath it extracted a crumpled 
scrap of paper. She handed it calmly, haughtily to 
Coppinger, then folded her arms again, one hand still 
holding the bunch of lavender. 

The letter was short. Coppinger’s hand shook with 
passion so that he could hardly hold it with Sufficient 
steadiness to read it. It ran as follows : 

“ I must know your wishes, dear Judith. Do you in- 
tend to remain in that den of wreckers and cut-throats ? 
or do you desire that your friends should bestir them- 
selves to obtain your release ? Tell us, in one word, 
what to do, or rather what are your wishes, and we will 
do what w^ eau,” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


331 


“Well!” said Coppinger, looking up. “And your 
answer is to the point — you wish to stay.” 

“ I did not answer thus. I said — leave me.” 

“ And never intended that he should leave you,” raged 
Coppinger. He came close up to her with his eyes glit- 
tering, his nostrils distended and snorting and his hands 
clinched. 

Judith loosened her arms, and with her right hand 
swept a space before her with the bunch of lavender. He 
should not approach her within arm’s length ; the laven- 
der marked the limit beyond which he might not draw 
near. 

“ Now, hear me I ” said Coppinger. “ I have been too 
indulgent. I have humored you as a spoilt child. Be- 
cause you willed this or that, I have submitted. But the 
time for humoring is over. I can endure this suspense 
no longer. Either you are my wife or you are not. I 
will suffer no trifling over this any longer. You have as 
it were put your lips to mine, and then sharply drawn 
them away — and now offer them to another.” 

“ Silence 1 ” exclaimed Judith. “ You insult me.” 

“ You insult and outrage me I ” said Coppinger, “when 
you run from your home to chatter with and walk wiih 
this Oliver, and never deign to speak to me. W^hen he 
is your dear Oliver, and I am only Captain Coppinger ; 
when you have smiles for him you have black looks for me. 
Is not that insulting, galling, stinging, maddening ? ” 

Judith was silent. Her throat swelled. There was 
some truth in what he said ; but, in the sight of heaven, 
she was guiltless of ever having thought of wrong, of 
having supposed for a moment that what she had allowed 
herself had not been harmless. 

“You are silent,” said Coppinger. “Now hearken! 
With this moment I turn over the page of humoring 
your fancies and yielding to your follies. I have never 
pressed you to sign that register— I have trusted to your 
good sense and good feeling. You cannot go back. 
Even if you desire it, you cannot undo what has been 
done. Mine you are, mine you shall be— mine wholly 
and always. Do you hear % ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And agree ? ” 

“ No.” 

He was silent a moment, with clinched teeth and hands 


332 IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 

looking* at her, with eyes that smote her, as though they 
were bullets. 

“ Very well,” said he. “ Your answer is no.” 

“ My answer is no, so help me God.” 

“ Very well,” said he, between his teeth. “ Then we 
open a new chapter.” 

“ What chapter is that ? ” 

“It is that of compulsion. That of solicitation is 
closed.” 

“ You cannot, whilst I have my senses. What ! ” She 
saw that he had a great riding- whip in his hand. “ What 
— the old story again ? You will strike me ? ” 

“No— not you. I will lash you into submission — 
through Jamie.” 

She uttered a cry, dropped the lavender, that became 
scattered before her, and held up her hands in mute en- 
treaty. 

“I owe him chastisement. I have owed it him for 
many a day — and to-day above all — as a go-between.” 

Judith could not speak. She remained as one frozen 
— in one attitude, in one spot, speechless. She could 
not stir, she could not utter a word of entreaty, as Cop- 
pinger left the room. 

In another minute a loud and shrill cry reached her 
ears from the court into which one of her windows 
looked. She knew the cry. It was that of her twin 
brother, and it thrilled through her heart, quivered in 
every nerve of her whole frame. 

She could hear what followed ; but she could not stir. 
She was rooted by her feet to the floor, but she writhed 
there. It was as though every blow dealt the boy out- 
side fell on her : she bent, she quivered, her lips parted, 
but cry she could not, the sweat rolled off her brow ; she 
beat with her hands in the air. Now she thrilled up 
with uplifted arms, on tip-toe, then sank — it was like a 
flame flickering in a socket before it expires : it dances, 
it curls, it shoots up in a tongue, it sinks into a bead of 
light, it rolls on one side, it sways to the other, it leaps 
from the wick high into the air, and drops again. It was 
so with Judith — every stroke dealt, every scream of the 
tortured boy, every toss of his suffering frame, was re- 
peated in her room, by her — in supreme, unspeaking 
anguish, too intense for sound to issue from her con- 
tracted throat. 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 


333 


Then all was still, and Judith had sunk to her knees 
on the scattered lavender, extending* her arms, clasping 
her hands, spreading them again, again beating her 
palms together, in a vague, unconscious way, as if in 
breathing she could not gain breath enough without 
this expansion and stretching forth of her arms. 

But, all at once, before her stood Coppinger, the whip 
in his hands. 

“ Well ! what now is your answer ? ” 

She breathed fast for some moments, laboring for ex- 
pression. Then she reared herself up and tried to speak, 
but could not. Before her, threshed out on the floor, 
were the lavender seeds. They lay thick in a film over 
the boards in one place. She put her finger among them 
and drew No. 


CHAPTEE XLV. 


GONE FEOM ITS PLACE. 

There are persons, they are not many, on whom Luck 
smiles and showers gold. Not a steady daily downpour 
of money but, whenever a little cloud darkens their sky, 
that same little cloud, which to others would be mere 
gloom, opens and discharges on them a sprinkling of 
gold pieces. 

It is not always the case that those who have rich rela- 
tives come in for good things from them. In many 
cases there are such on whom Luck turns her back, but to 
those of whom we speak the rain of gold, and the snow 
of scrip and bonds come unexpectedly, but inevitably. 
Just as Pilatus catches every cloud that drifts over 
Switzerland, so do they by some fatality catch something 
out of every trouble, that tends materially to solace their 
feelings, lacerated by that trouble. But not so only. 
These little showers fall to them from relatives they have 
taken no trouble to keep on good terms with, from 
acquaintances whom they have cut, admirers whose good 
opinion they have not concerned themselves to cultivate, 
friends with whom they have quarrelled. Gideon’s 
fleece, on one occasion, gathered to itself all the dew that 
fell, and left the grass of the field around quite dry. So 
do these fortunate persons concentrate on themselves, 
fortuitively it seems, the dew of richness that descends 
and might have, ought to have, dropped elsewhere ; at all 
events, ought to have been more evenly and impartially 
distributed. Gideon’s fleece, on another occasion was 
dry, when all the glebe was dripi)ing. So is it with 
certain unfortunates. Luck never favors them. What they 
have expected and counted on they do not get, it is di- 
verted, it drops round about them on every side, only on 
them it never falls. 

Now, Miss Trevisa cannot be said to have belonged to 
either of these classes. To the latter she had pertained 


335 


IN’ THE ROAR OF TEE vE A. 

till suddenly, from a quarter quite unregarded, there 
came down on her a very satisfactory little splash. Of 
relatives that were rich she had none, because she had no 
relatives at all. Of bosom friends she had none, for her 
bosom was of that unyielding nature, that no one would 
like to be taken to it. But, before the marriage of her 
brother, and before he became rector of S. Enodoc, when 
he was but a poor curate, she had been companion to a 
spinster lady. Miss Ceely, near S. Austell. Now the 
companion is supposed to be a person without an opin- 
ion of her own, always standing in a cringing position 
to receive the opinion of her mistress, then to turn it 
over and give it forth as her own. She is, if she be a 
proper companion, a mere echo of the sentiments of her 
employer. Moreover, she is expected to be amiable, 
never to resent a rude word, never to take umbrage at 
neglect, always to be ready to dance attendance on her 
mistress, and with enthusiasm of devotion, real or sim- 
ulated, to carry out her most absurd wishes, unreason- 
ingly. But Miss Trevisa had been, as a companion, all 
that a companion ought not to be. She had argued 
with Miss Ceely, invariably, had crossed her opinions, 
had grumbled at her when she asked that anything 
might be done, raised difficulties, piled up objections, 
blocked the way to whatever Miss Ceely particularly set 
the heart on having executed. The two ladies were 
always quarrelling, always calling each other names, and 
it was a marvel to the relatives of Miss Ceely that she 
and her companion hung together for longer than a 
month. Nevertheless they did. Miss Trevisa left the 
old lady when Mr. Peter Trevisa became rector of S. Eno- 
doc, and then Miss Ceely obtained in her place quite 
an ideal companion, a very mirror — she had but to look 
on her face, smile, and a smile was repeated, weep, and 
tears came in the mirror. The new companion grovelled 
at her feet, licked the dust off her shoes, fawned on her 
hand, ran herself off her legs to serve her, grew gray 
under the misery of enduring Miss Ceely ’s jibes and 
sneers and insults, finally sacrificed her health in nurs- 
ing her. When Miss Ceely’s will was opened it was 
found that she had left nothing — not a farthing to this 
obsequious attendant, but had bequeathed fifteen hun- 
dred pounds, free of legacy duty, and all her furniture and 
her house to Miss Trevisa, with whom she had not kept 


336 


IN IHE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


up correspondence for twenty-three years. It really 
seemed as if leathery, rusty Aunt Dionysia, from being a 
dry Gideon’s fleece, were about to be turned into a wet 
and wringable fleece. No one was more astounded than 
herself. 

It was now necessary that Miss Trevisa should go to 
S. Austell and see after what had come to her thus unso- 
licited and unexpectedly. All need for her to remain at 
Pentyre was at an end. 

Before she de]parted — not finally, but to see about the 
furniture that was now hers, and to make up her mind 
whether to keep or to sell it — she called Judith to her. 

That day, the events of which were given in last chap- 
ter, had produced a profound impression on Jamie. He 
had become gloomy, timid, and silent. His old idle 
chatter ceased. He clung to his sister, and accompanied 
her wherever she went ; he could not endure to be with 
Coppinger. When he heard his voice, caught a glimpse 
of him, he ran away and hid. J amie had been humored 
as a child, never beaten, scolded, put in a corner, sent to 
bed, cut off his pudding, but the rod had now been ap- 
plied to his back and his first experience of corporal 
punishment was the cruel and vindictive hiding admin- 
istered, not for any fault he had committed but because 
he had done his sister’s bidding. He was filled with ha- 
tred of Coppinger, mingled with fear, and when alone with 
Judith would break out into exclamations of entreaty 
that she would run away with him, and of detestation 
of the man who held them there, as it were prisoners. 

“ Ju,” said he, “ I wish he were dead. I hate him. 
Why doesn’t God kill him and set us free ? ” 

At another time he said, “ Ju, dear ! You do not love 
him.” “ I wish. I were a big strong man like Oliver, and 
I would do what Captain Cruel did.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Captain Cruel shot at Oliver.” 

“ This was the first tidings Judith had heard of the 
attempt on Oliver’s life. 

“ He is a mean coward,” said Jamie. “ He hid behind 
a hedge and shot at him. But he did not hurt him.” 

“ God preserved him,” said Judith. 

“ Why does not God preserve us % Why did God let 
that beast ” 

“ Hush, Jamie ! ” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 337 

“ I will not— that wretch— beat me ? Why did He not 
send lightning- and strike him dead ? ” 

‘‘ I cannot tell you, darling. We must wait and trust.” 

“ I am tired of waiting and trusting. If I had a gun 
I would not shoot birds, I would go behind a hedge and 
> shoot Captain Coppinger. There would be nothing 
wrong in that, Ju ? ” 

“ Yes there would. It would be a sin.” 

“ Not after he did that to Oliver.” 

“ I would never — never love you, if you did that.” 

“ You would always love me whatever I did,” said 
Jamie. He spoke the truth, Judith knew it. Her eyes 
filled, she drew the boy to her passionately and kissed 
his golden head. 

Then came Aunt Dionysia and summoned her into her 
own room. Jamie followed. 

“ Judith,” began Aunt Dunes, in her usual hard tones, 
and with the same frozen face, “ I wish you particularly 
to understand. Look here! You have caused me an- 
noyance enough while I have been here. Now I shall 
have a house of my own at S. Austell, and if I chose to 
live in it I can. If I do not, I can let it, and live at 
Othello Cottage. I have not made up my mind what to 
do. Fifteen hundred pounds is a dirty little sum, and 
not half as much as ought to have been left me for all I 
had to bear from that old woman. I am glad for one 
thing that she has left me something, though not much. 
I should have despaired of her salvation had she not. 
However her heart was touched at the last, though not 
touched enough. Now what I want you to understand 
is this — it entirely depends on your conduct whether 
after my death this sum of fifteen hundred pounds and a 
beggarly sum of about five hundred I have of my own, 
comes to you or not. As long as this nonsense goes on 
between you and Captain Coppinger — you pretending 
you are not married, when you are, there is no security 
for me that you and Jamie may not come tumbling in 
upon me and become a burden to me. Captain Cop- 
pinger will not endure this fooling much longer. He 
can take advantage of your mistake. He can say — I am 
not married. Where is the evidence ? Produce proof 
of the marriage having been solemnized— and then he 
may send you out of his house upon the downs in the 
cold. What would you be then, eh? All the world 


838 


THE ROAR OF TEE SEA, 


jiolds you to be Mrs. Coppinger. A nice state of affairs, 
if it wakes up one morning* to hear that Mrs. Copping’er 
has been kicked out of the Glaze, that she never was the 
wife. What will the world say, eh ? What sort of name 
will the world give you, when you have lived here as his 
wife.” 

“ That I have not.'* 

“ Lived here, gone to balls as his wife when you were 
not. What will the world call you, eh ? ” 

Judith was silent, holding both her hands, open 
against her bosom. Jamie beside her, looking up in her 
face, not understanding what his aunt was saying. 

“ Very well — or rather very ill ! ” continued Miss 
Trevisa. “ And then you and this boy here will come to 
me to take you in, come and saddle yourselves on me, 
and eat up my little fund. That is what will be the end 
of it, if you remain in your folly. Go at once to the 
rector, and put your name where it should have been two 
months ago, and your position is secure, he cannot drive 
you away, disgusted at your stubbornness, and you will 
relieve me of a constant source of uneasiness. It is not 
that only, but I must care for the good name of Trevisa, 
which you happen to bear, that that name may not be 
trailed in the dust. The common sense of the matter is 
precisely what you cannot see. If you are not Cop- 
pinger’s wife you should not be here. If you are Cop- 
pinger’s wife, then your name should be in the register. 
Now here you have come. You have appeared in public 
with him. You have but one course open to you, and 
that is to secure your position and your name and honor. 
You cannot undo what is done, but you can complete 
what is done insufficiently. The choice between alter- 
natives is no longer before you. If you had purposed to 
withdraw from marriage, break off the engagement, then 
you should not have come on to Pentyre, and remained 
here. As, however, you did this, there is absolutely 
nothing else to be done, but to sign the register. Do 
you hear me % ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you will obey ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Pig-headed fool,” said Miss Trevisa. “Not one 
penny will I leave you. That I swear, if you remain 
obstinate.’* 


TlSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


339 


“ Do not let us say anything- more about that, aunt. 
Now you are going away, is there anything connected 
with the house you wish me to attend to ? That I will 
do readily.” 

“ Yes, there are several things,” growled Miss Trevisa, 
“ and, first of all, are you disposed to do anything, any 
common little kindness for the man whose bread you 
eat, whose roof covers you ? ” 

“ Yes, aunt.” 

^'Very well, then. Captain Coppinger has his bowl 
of porridge every morning. I suppose he was accus- 
tomed to it before he came into these parts, and he cannot 
breakfast without it. He says that our Cornish maids 
cannot make porridge properly, and I have been accus- 
torued to see to it. Either it is lumpy, or it is watery, 
or it is saltless. Will you see to that % ” 

“ Yes, aunt, willingly.” 

“ You ought to know how to make porridge, as you are 
more than half Scottish.” 

“I certainly can make it. Dear papa always liked 
it.” 

“ Then you will attend to that. If you are too high 
and too great a lady to put your hand to it yourself, 
you can see that the cook manages it aright. There is a 
new girl in now, who is a fool.” 

“ I will make it myself. I will do all I can do.” 

“ Then take the keys. Now that I go, you must be 
mistress of the house. But for your folly, I might have 
been from here, and in my own house, or rather in that 
given me for my use, Othello Cottage. I was to have 
gone there directly after your marriage, I had furnished 
it, and made it comfortable, and then you took to your 
fantastic notions, and hung back, and refused to allow 
ihat you were married, and so I had to stick on here two 
months. Here, take the keys.” Miss Trevisa almost 
flung them at her niece. “Now I have two thousand 
pounds of my own, and a house at S. Austell, it does not 
become me to be doing menial service. Take the keys. 
I will never have them back.” 

When Miss Trevisa was gone, and Judith was by her- 
self at night, Jamie being asleep, she was able to think 
over calmly what her aunt had said. She concerned her- 
self not the least, relative to the promise her aunt had 
made of leaving her two thousand pounds, were she sub- 


340 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


missive, and her threat of disinheriting her, should she 
continue recalcitrant, but she did feel that there was 
truth in her aunt’s words when she said that she, Judith, 
had placed herself in a wrong position — but it was a 
wrong position into which she had been forced, she had 
not voluntarily entered it. She had, indeed, consented 
to become Coppinger’s wife, but when she found that 
Coppinger had employed Jamie to give signals that 
might mislead a vessel to its ruin she could not go fur- 
ther to meet him. Although he had endeavored to clear 
himself in her eyes, she did not believe him. She was 
convinced that he was guilty, though at moments she 
hoped, and tried to persuade herself that he was not. 
Then came the matter of the diamonds. There, again, 
the gravest suspicion rested on him. Again he had 
endeavored to exculpate himself, yet she could not be- 
lieve that he was innocent. Till full confidence that he 
was blameless in these matters was restored, an insupera- 
ble wall divided them. Never would she belong to a 
man who was a wrecker, who belonged to that class of 
criminals her father had regarded with the utmost 
horror. 

Before she retired to bed, she picked up from under 
the fender the scrap of paper on which Oliver’s message 
had been written. It had lain there unobserved where 
Coppinger had flung it, now, as she tidied her room, and 
arranged the fire-rug, she observed it. She smoothed it 
out, folded it, and went to her work-box to replace it 
where it had been before. 

She raised the lid, and was about to put the note 
among some other papers she had there, a letter of her 
mother’s, a piece of her father’s writing, some little ac- 
counts she had kept, when she was startled to see that 
the packet of arsenic Mr. Menaida had given her was 
missing. 

She turned out the contents of her work-box. It was 
nowhere to be found, either there, or in her drawers. 
Her aunt must have been prying into the box, have found 
and removed it, so Judith thought, and with this thought 
appeased her alarm. Perhaps, considering the danger 
of having arsenic about. Aunt Dionysia had done right 
in removing it. She had done wrong in doing so with- 
out speaking to Judith. 


CHAPTEE XLVI. 

A SECOND LIE. 


Next day, Miss Trevisa being gone, Judith had to at- 
tend to the work of the house. It was her manifest duty 
to do so. Hitherto she had shrunk from the responsi- 
bility, because she shrank from assuming a position in 
the house to which she refused to consider that she had 
aright. Judith was perfectly competent to manage an 
establishment, she had a clear head, a love of order, and 
a power of exacting obedience of servants without inces- 
sant reproof. Moreover, she had that faculty possessed 
by few of directing others in their work so that each 
moved along his or her own line and fulfilled the allot- 
ted work with ease. She had managed her father’s 
house, and managed it admirably. She knew that, as 
the king’s government must be carried on, so the 
routine of a household must be kept going. Judith had 
sufficient acquaintance also with servants to be aware 
that the wheel would stop or move spasmodically, unless 
an authoritative hand were applied to it to keep it in 
even revolution. She knew also that whatever happened 
in a house — a birth, a death, a wedding, an uproar — the 
round of common duties must be discharged, the meals 
prepared, the bread baked, the milk skimmed, the beds 
made, the carpets swept, the furniture dusted, the win- 
dows opened, the blinds drawn down, the table laid, the 
silver and glass burnished. Nothing save a fire which 
gutted a house must interfere with all this routine. 
Miss Trevisa was one of those ladies who, in their own 
opinion, are condemned by Providence never to have 
good servants. A benign Providence sheds good do- 
mestics into every other house, save that which she rules. 
She is born under a star which inexorably sends the 
scum and dregs of servantdom under her sceptre. Miss 
Trevisa regarded a servant as a cat regards a mouse, a 
dog regards a fox, and a dolphin a flying-fish, as some- 
thing to be run after, snapped at, clawed, leaped upon, 


342 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


worried perpetually. She was incapable of believing 
that there could be any good in a servant, that there was 
any other side to a domestic save a seamy side. She 
could make no allowance for ignorance, for weakness, for 
lightheartedness. A servant in her eyes must be a 
drudge ever working, never speaking, smiling, taking a 
hand off the duster, without a mind above hue and tea- 
leaves, and unable to soar above a cobweb ; with a tem- 
per perfect in endurance of daily, hourly fault-finding, 
nagging, grumbling, a mind unambitious also of com- 
mendation. Miss Trevisa held that every servant that a 
malign Providence had sent her was clumsy, insolent, 
slatternly, unmethodical, idle, wasteful, a gossip, a gad- 
about, a liar, a thief, was dainty, greedy, one of a cursed 
generation ; and when in the Psalms, David launched out 
in denunciation of the enemies of the Lord, Miss Trevisa, 
when she heard or read these Psalms, thought of servant- 
dom. Servants were referred to when David said, “ Hide 
me from the insurrection of the wicked doers, who have 
whet their tongues like a sword, that they may privily 
shoot at him that is perfect,” i.e., me, was Miss Trevisa’s 
comment. “They encourage themselves in mischief; 
and commune among themselves how they may lay 
snares, and say, that no man shall see them.” “And 
how,” said Miss Trevisa, “ can men be so blind as not to 
believe that the Bible is inspired when David hits the 
character of servants off to the life ! ” 

And not the Psalms only, but the Prophets were full 
of servants’ delinquencies. What were Tyre and Egypt 
but figures of servantdom shadowed before. What else 
did Isaiah lift up his testimony about, and Jeremiah 
lament over, but the iniquities of the kitchen and the ser- 
vants’ hall. Miss Trevisa read her Bible, and great 
comfort did it afford her, because it did denounce the 
servant maids so unsparingly and prepared brimstone 
and outer darkness for them. 

Now Judith had seen and heard much of the way in 
which Miss Trevisa managed Captain Coppinger’s house. 
Her room adjoined that of her aunt, and she knew that if 
her aunt were engaged on — it mattered not what absorb- 
ing work, embroidery, darning a stocking, reading a 
novel, saying her prayers, studying the cookery book — 
if a servant sneezed within a hundred yards, or upset a 
drop of water, or clanked a dust pan, or clicked a door- 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


343 


handle, Miss Trevisa would be distracted from her work 
and rush out of her room, just as a spider darts from its 
recess, and sweep down on the luckless servant to worry 
and abuse her. 

Judith, knowing* this, knew also that the day of Miss 
Trevisa’s departure would be marked with white chalk, 
and lead to a general relaxation of discipline, to an in- 
haling of long breaths, and a general stretching and tak- 
ing of ease. It was necessary, therefore, that she should 
go round and see that the wheel was kept turning. 

To her surprise, on entering the hall, she found Cap- 
tain Coppinger there. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said, “I thought you were 
out.” 

She looked at him and was struck with his appear- 
ance, the clay -like color of his face, the dark lines in it, 
the faded look in his eyes. 

“ Are you unwell ? ” she asked ; “ you really look ill.” 

“ I am ill.” 

“Ill — what is the matter ? ” 

“ A burning in my throat. Cramp and pains — but what 
is that to you ? ” 

“ When did it come on ? ” 

“ But recently.” 

“ Will you not have a doctor to see you ? ” 

“ A doctor ! — no.” 

“Was the porridge as you liked it this morning ? I 
made it.” 

“ It was good enough.” 

“ Would you like more now ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ And to-morrow morning, will you have the same ? ” 

“Yes — the same.” 

“I will make it again. Aunt said the new cook did 
not understand how to mix and boil it to your liking.” 

Coppinger nodded. . 

Judith remained standing and observing him. Some 
faces when touched by pain and sickness are softened 
and sweetened. The hand of suffering passes over the 
countenance and brushes away all that is frivolous, soi> 
did, vulgar; it gives dignity, purity, refinement, and 
shows what the inner soul might be were it not en- 
tangled and degraded by base association and pursuit. 
It is different with other faces, the hand of suffering 


844 


Ilf THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


films away the assumed expression of good nature, hon- 
esty, straightforwardness, and unmasks the evil inner 
man. The touch of pain had not improved the exiDres- 
sion of Cruel Coppinger. It cannot, however, with jus- 
tice be said that the gentler aspect of the man, which 
Judith had at one time seen, was an assumption. He 
was a man in whom there was a certain element of good, 
but it was mixed up with headlong wilfulness, utter 
selfishness, and resolution to have his own way at any 
cost. 

Judith could see, now that his face was pain-struck, 
how much of evil there was in the soul that had been 
disguised by a certain dash of masculine overbearing and 
brusqueness. 

“ What are you looking at ? ” asked Coppinger, glanc- 
ing up. 

“ I was thinking,’’ answered Judith. 

“ Of what ? ” 

“ Of you — of Wyvill, of the wreck on Doom Bar, of 
the jewels of Lady Knighton, and last of all of Jamie’s 
maltreatment.” 

“ And what of all that ? ” he said in irritable scorn. 

“ That I need not say. I have drawn my own conclu- 
clusions.” 

“ You torment me, you — when I am ill ? They call me 
Cruel, but it is you who are cruel.” 

Judith did not wish to be drawn into discussion that 
must be fruitless. She said, quietly, in altered tone, 
‘‘ Can I get you anything to comfort you ? ” 

“No-go your way. This will pass. Besides, it is 
naught to you. Go ; I would be left alone.” 

Judith obeyed, but she was uneasy. She had never 
seen Coppinger look as he looked now. It was other, 
altogether, after he had broken his arm. Other, also, 
when for a day he was crippled with bruises, after the 
wreck. She looked into the hall several times during 
the day. In the afternoon he was easier, and went out ; 
his mouth had been parched and burning, and he had 
been drinking milk. The empty glass was on the table. 
He would eat nothing at mid-day. He turned from food, 
and left the room for his own chamber. 

Judith was anxious. She more than once endeavored 
to draw Coppinger into conversation relative to himself, 
but he would not speak of what afiected him. He was 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 345 

annoyed and ashamed at being out of his usual rude 
health. 

“ It is naught,” he said, “ but a bilious attack, and will 
pass. Leave me alone.” 

She had been so busy all day, that she had seen little 
of Jamie. He had taken advantage of Captain Cox^pin- 
ger not being about, to give himself more license to roam 
than he had of late, and to go wdth his donkey on the clilis. 
Anyhow Judith on this day did not have him hanging to 
her skirts. She was glad of it, for, though she loved 
him, he would have been an encumbrance when she w^as 
so busy. 

The last thing at night she did was to go to Coppinger 
to inquire what he would take. He desired nothing but 
spirits and milk. He thought that a milk-punch would 
give him ease and make him sleep. That he was weak 
and had suffered pain she saw, and she was full of pity 
for him. But this she did not like to exhibit, partly be- 
cause he might misunderstand her feelings, and partly 
because he seemed irritated at being unwell, and at loss 
of power ; irritated, at all events, at it being observed that 
he was not in his usual plenitude of strength and health. 

That n^ght the Atlantic was troubled, and the wind 
carried the billows against the cliffs in a succession of 
rhythmic roars that filled the air with sound and made 
the earth quiver. Judith could not sleep, she listened 
to the thud of the water-heax^s flung against the rocks ; 
there was a clock on the stairs and in her wakefulness 
she listened to the tick of the clock, and the boom of 
the waves, now coming together, then one behind the 
other, now the wave-beat catching up the clock-tick, then 
falling in arrear, the ocean getting angry and making ux3 
its pace by a double beat. Moreover flakes of foam were 
carried on the wind and came, like snow, against her 
window that looked seaward striking the glass and ad- 
hering to it. 

As Judith lay watchful in the night her mind again 
recurred to the packet of arsenic that had been abstracted 
from her workbox. It was inconsiderate of her to have 
left it there ; she ought to have locked her box. But 
who could have supposed that anyone would have gone 
to the box, raised the tray and sepched the contents of 
the compartment beneath ? Judith had been unaccus- 
tomed to lock up anything, because she had never had 


346 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


any secrets to hide from any eye. She ag’ain considered 
the probability of her aunt haying removed it, and then 
it occurred to her that perhaps Miss Trevisa might have 
supposed that she— Judith — in a fit of revolt against 
the wretchedness of her life might be induced to take 
the poison herself and finish her miseries. “ It was ab- 
surd if Aunt Dunes thought that,” said Judith to her- 
self ; “ she can little have known how my dear Papa’s 
teaching has sunk into my heart, to suppose me capable 
of such a thing — and then — to run away like a cow^ard 
and leave Jamie unprotected. It was too absurd.” 

Next morning Judith was in her room getting a large 
needle with which to hem a bit of carpet edge that had 
been fraying for the last five years, and which no one 
had thought of putting a thread to, and so arresting the 
disintegration. Jamie was in the room. Judith said to 
him : 

“ My dear, you have not been skinning and stufling 
any birds lately, have you ? ” 

“ No, Ju.” 

“ Because I have missed — but, Jamie, I hope you have 
not been at my workbox ? ” 

“ What about your workbox, Ju ? ” 

She knew the boy so well, that her suspicions were at 
once aroused by this answer. When he had nothing to 
hide he replied with a direct negative or affirmative, but 
when he had done what his conscience would not quite 
allow was right, he fell into equivocation, and shuffled 
awkwardly. 

“Jamie,” said Judith, looking him straight in the face, 
“ have you been to my Tdox ? ” 

“ Only just looked in.” 

Then he ran to the window. “ Oh, do see, Ju, how 
patched the glass is with foam !— and is it not dirty ? ” 

“ Jamie, come back. I want an answer.” 

He had opened the casement and put his hand out and 
was wiping off the patches of froth. 

“ What a lot of it there is, Ju.” 

“ Come here, instantly, Jamie, and shut the window.” 

The boy obeyed, creeping toward her sideways, with 
his head down. 

“ Jamie, did you lift the tray ? ” 

“ Only on one side, just a little bit.” 

“ Did you take anything from under the tray ? ” 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


847 


He did not answer immediately. She looked at him 
searchingly and in suspense. Ke never could endure 
this questioning- look of hers, and he ran to her, put 
his arms round her waist, and clasped to her side, hid 
his face in her g-own. 

“ Only a little.” 

“ A little what ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Jamie, no lies. There was a blue paper there con- 
taining- poison, that you were not to have unless there 
were occasion for it — some bird-skin to be preserved and 
dressed with it. Now, did you take that ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Go and bring- it back to me immediately.” 

‘‘ I can’t.” 

“ Why not ? Where is it ? ” 

The boy fidg-eted, looked up in his sister’s face to 
see what expression it bore, buried his head again, and 
said : 

“ Ju ! he is rightly called Cruel. I hate him, and so do 
you, don’t you, Ju ? I have put the arsenic into his oat- 
meal, and we will get rid of him and be free and go away. 
It will be jolly.” 

“ Jamie ! ” with a cry of horror. 

He won’t whip me and scold you any more.” 

“ Jamie ! Oh, my Lord, have pity on him ! have pity 
on us ! ” 

She clasped her hands to her head, rushed from the 
room, and flew down the stairs. 

But ten minutes before that Judith had given Cop- 
pinger his bowl of porridge. He had risen late that 
morning. He was better, he said, and he looked more 
himself than the preceding day. He was now seated at 
the table in the hall, and had poured the fresh milk into 
the bowl, had dipped the spoon, put some of the porridge 
to his mouth, tasted, and was looking curiously into the 
spoon, when the door was flung open, Judith entered, 
and without a word of explanation, caught the bowl from 
him and dashed it on the floor. 

Coppinger looked at her with his boring, dark eyes in- 
tently, and said : “ What is the meaning of this ? ” 

“ It is poisoned.” 

Judith was breathless. She drew back relieved at haV' 
ing cast away the fatal mess. 


548 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


Coppinger rose to liis feet, and glared at her across 
the table, leaning with his knuckles on the board. He 
did not speak for a moment, his face became livid, and 
his hands resting on the table shook as though he were 
shivering in an ague. 

“ There is arsenic in the porridge,” gasped Judith. 

She had not time to weigh what she should say, how 
explain her conduct ; but one thought had held her — to 
save Coppinger’s life while there was yet time. 

The Captain’s dog that had been lying at his master’s 
feet rose, went to the spilt porridge, and began to lap 
the milk and devour the paste. Neither Judith nor Cop- 
pinger regarded him. 

“ It was an accident,” faltered Judith. 

^ “You lie,” said Coppinger, in thrilling tones, “you 
lie, you murderess ! You sought to kill me.” 

J udith did not answer for a moment. She also was 
trembling. She had to resolve what course to pursue. 
She could not, she would not, betray her brother, and 
subject him to the worst brutality of treatment from the 
infuriated man whose life he had sought. 

It were better for her to take the blame on herself. 

“ I made the porridge — I and no one else.” 

“ You told me so, yesterday.” He maintained his com- 
posure marvellously, but he was stunned by the sudden 
discovery of treachery in the woman he had loved and 
worshipped. 

“ You maddened me by your treatment, but I did not 
desire that you should die. I repented and have saved 
your life.” 

As Judith spoke she felt as though the flesh of her face 
stiffened, and the skin became as parchment. She could 
hardly open her mouth to speak and stir her tongue. 

“ Go ! ” said Coppinger, pointing to the door. “ Go, 
you and your brother. Othello cottage is empty. Go, 
murderess, poisoner of your husband, there and wait till 
you hear from me. Under one roof, to eat off one board, 
is henceforth impossible. Go ! ” he remained pointing, 
and a sulphurous fire flickered in his eyes. 

Then the hound began to howl, threw itself down, its 
limbs were contracted, it foamed at the mouth, and 
howled again. 

To the liowlings of the poisoned and dying dog Ju- 
dith and Jamie left Pen tyre. 


CHAPTEK XLVn. 

FAST IN HIS HANDS. 

Judith and Jamie were together in Othello Cottage- 
banished from Pentyre with a dark and threatening 
shadow over them, but this, however, gave the boy but 
little concern ; he was delighted to be away from a house 
where he had been in incessant terror, and where he was 
under restraint ; moreover, it was joy to him to be now 
where he need not meet Coppinger at every turn. 

Judith forbade his going to Polzeath to see Uncle 
Zachie and Oliver Menaida, as she thought it advisable, 
under the circumstances, to keep themselves to them- 
selves, and above all not to give further occasion for the 
suspicions and jealousy of Coppinger. This was to her, 
under the present condition of affairs, specially distress- 
ing, as she needed some counsel as to what she should 
do. Uncle Zachie at his best was a poor adviser, but on 
no account now would she appeal to his son. She was 
embarrassed and alarmed. And she had excuse for em- 
barrassment and alarm. She had taken upon herself the 
attempt that had been made on the life of Coppinger, 
and he would, she supposed, believe her to be guilty. 

What would he do ? Would he proceed against her 
for attempted murder ? If so, the case against her was 
very complete. It could be shown that Mr. Menaida had 
given her this arsenic, that she had kept it by her in 
her workbox while at the Glaze, that she had been on 
the most unsatisfactory terms with Captain Coppinger, 
and that she had refused to complete her marriage with 
him by appending her signature to the register. She 
was now aware — and the thought made her feel sick at 
heart and faint — that her association with the Menaidas 
had been most injudicious and had been capable of mis- 
interpretation. It had been misinterpreted by Coppin- 
ger, and probably also by the gossips of Polzeath. It 
could be shown that a secret correspondence had been 


350 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


carried on between her and Oliver, which had been in- 
tercepted by her husband. This was followed immedi- 
ately by the attempt to poison Coppinger. The arsenic 
had been given him in the porridge her own hands had 
mixed, and which had been touched by no one else. It 
was natural to conclude that she had deliberately pur- 
posed to destroy her husband, that she might be free to 
marry Oliver Menaida. 

If she were prosecuted on the criminal charge of 
attempted murder, the case could be made so conclusive 
against her that her conviction was certain. 

Her only chance of escape lay in two directions— one 
that she should tell the truth, and allow Jamie to suffer 
the consequences of what he had done, which would be 
prison or a lunatic asylum. The other was that she 
should continue to screen him and trust that Coppinger 
would not prosecute her. He might hesitate about pro- 
ceeding with such a case, which would attract attention 
to himself, to his household, and lay bare to the public 
eye much that he would reasonably be supposed to wish 
to keep concealed. If, for instance, the case were 
brought into court the story of the enforced marriage 
must come out, and that would rake up once more the 
mystery of the wreckers on Doom Bar, and of Lady 
Knighton’s jewels. Coppinger might and probably 
would grasp at the other alternative — take advantage of 
the incompletion of the marriage, repudiate her, and let 
the matter of the poisoned porridge remain untouched. 

The more Judith turned the matter over in her head 
the more sure she became that the best course, indeed 
the only one in which safety lay, was for her to continue 
to assume to herself the guilt of the attempt on Coppin- 
ger’s life. He would see by her interference the second 
time, and prevention of his taking a second portion of the 
arsenic, that she did not really seek his life, but sought 
to force him, through personal fear, to drive her from 
his house and break the bond by which he bound her to 
him. For the sake of this going back from a purpose of 
murder, or from thinking that she had never intended 
to do more than drive him to a separation by alarm for 
his own safety ; for the sake of the old love he had borne 
her, he might forbear pressing this matter to its bitter 
consequences, and accept what she desired — their sei)a» 
ration. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


351 


But if Judith allowed the truth to come out, then her 
husband would have no such compunction. It would be 
an opportunity for him to get rid of the boy he de- 
tested, and even if he did not have him consigned to 
jail, then it would be only because he would send him 
to an asylum. 

Judith went out on the cliffs. The sea was troubled, 
far as the horizon, strewn with white horses shaking 
their manes, pawing and prancing in their gallop land- 
ward. There was no blue, no greenness in the ocean 
now. The dull tinctures of winter were in it. The At- 
lantic wore its scowl, was leaden and impatient. The 
foam on the rocks was driven up in spouts into the air 
and carried over the downs, it caught in the thorn 
bushes like flocks of wool, and was no cleaner. It lay 
with the thin melting snow and melted with it into a 
dirty slush. It plastered the face of Othello Cottage as 
though, in brutal insolence. Ocean had been spitting at 
the house that was built of the wreck he had failed to 
gulp down, though he had chewed the life out of it. 
The foam rested in flakes on the rushes where it hung 
and fluttered like tufts of cotton-grass. It was dropped 
about by the wind for miles inland as though the wind 
were running in a paper chase. It was as though sky 
and sea were contending in a game of pelting the land, 
the one with snow, the other with foam, the one sweet, 
the other salt. Judith walked where, near the edge of 
the cliffs, where there was no snow, and looked out at 
the angry ocean. All without was cold, rugged, ruffled, 
wretched ; and within her heart burned a fire of apprehen- 
sion, distress, almost of despair. All at once she came 
upon Mr. Desiderius Mules, walking in an opposite direc- 
tion, engaged in wiping the foam-flakes out of his eyes. 

“ Halloo ! you here Mrs. Coppinger ? ” exclaimed the 
rector; “glad to see you. Tm not here like S. An- 
thony preaching to the fishes, because I am a practical 
man. In the first place, in such a disturbed sea the fishes 
would have enough to do to look after themselves and 
would be ill-disposed to lend me an ear. In the next 
place the wind is on shore, and they would not hear me 
were I to lift up my voice. So I don’t waste words and 
over-strain my larynx. If the bishop were a mile or a 
mile and a half inland, it might be different, he might 
admire my zeal. And what brings you here ” 


352 


IN THE ROAIt OF THE SEA. 


“ Oil, Mr. Mules ! ” exclaimed Judith, with a leap of 
hope in her heart — here was someone who might if he 
would be a help to her. She had indeed made up her 
own mind as to what was the safest road on which to set 
her feet, but she was timid, shrank from falsehood, and 
earnestly craved for someone to whom she could speak, 
and from whom she could obtain advice. 

“ Oh, Mr. Mules ! will you give me some advice and 
assistance ? ” 

“ Advice, by all means,” said the rector. “ I’ll turn 
and walk your way, the froth is blown into my face and 
stings it. My skin is sensitive, so are my eyes. Upon 
my word, when I get home my face will be as salt as if 
I had flooded it with tears — fancy me crying. What did 
you say you wanted — advice ? ” 

“ Advice and assistance.” 

“ Advice you shall have, it is my profession to give it. 
I mix it with pepper and salt and serve it out in soup 
plates every week — am ready with it every day, Mrs. Cop- 
pinger. I have buckets of it at your disposal, bring 
your tureen and I’ll tip in as much of the broth as you 
want, and may you like it. As to assistance, that is 
another matter. Pecuniary assistance I never give. I 
am unable to do so. My principles stand in the way. I 
have set up a high standard for myself and I stick to it. 
I never render pecuniary assistance to anyone, as it de- 
moralizes the receiver. I hope and trust it w^as not pe- 
cuniary assistance you wanted.” 

“ No, Mr. Mules — not that, only guidance.” 

‘‘ Oh, guidance ! I’m your sign - post, where do you 
want to go ? ” 

“ It is this, sir. I have given poison to Mr. Coppin- 
ger.” 

“ Mercy on me ! ” the rector jumped back and turned 
much the tinge of the foam plasters that were on his 
face. 

“ That is to say, I gave him arsenic mixed with his 
porridge the day before yesterday, and it made liim very 
ill. Yesterday ” 

“Hush, hush!” said Mr. Mules, “no more of this. 
This is ghastly. Let us say it is hallucination on your 
part. You are either not right in your head or are very 
wicked. If you please — don’t come nearer to me. I 
can hear you quite well, hear a great deal more than 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


353 


pleases me. You ask my advice, and I give it : Sign 
the register, that will set me square, and put me in an 
unassailable position with the public, and also, second- 
arily, it Avill be to your advantage. You are now a 
nondescript, and a nondescript is objectionable. If you 
please — you will excuse me — I should prefer not stand- 
ing between you and the cliff. There is no knowing 
what a person who confesses to poisoning her husband 
might do. If it be a case of lunacy — well, more reason 
that I should use precautions. My life is valuable. 
Come, there is only one thing you can do to make me 
comfortable — sign the register.” 

“ You will not mention what I have told you to any- 
one?” 

“ Save and defend us ! I speak of it ! — I ! Come, 
come, be rational. Sign the register and set my mind 
at ease, that is all I want and ask for, and then I wash 
my hands of you.” 

Then away went Mr. Desiderius Mules, with the wind 
catching his coat-tails, twisting them, throwing them 
up against his back, parting them, and driving them 
one on each side of him, taking and cutting them and 
sending them between his legs. 

Judith stood mournfully looking after him. The sign- 
post, as he had called himself was flying from the travel- 
ler whom it was his duty to direct. 

Then a hand was laid on her arm. She started, turned 
and saw Oliver Menaida, flushed with rapid walking 
and with the fresh air he had encountered. 

“ I have come to see you,” he said. “ I have come to 
offer you my father’s and my assistance. We have just 
heard ” 

“What?” 

“That Captain Coppinger has turned you and Jamie 
out of his house.” 

“ Have you heard any reason assigned ? ” 

“ Because — so it is said — he had beaten the boy, and 
you were incensed, angry words passed — and it ended 
in a rupture.” 

“ That, then, is the common explanation ? ” 

“Everyone is talking about it. Everyone says that. 
And now, what will you do ? ” 

“Thank you. Jamie and I are at Othello Cottage, 
where we are comfortable. My aunt had furnished it 


354 


JiT TEE ROAR OF TEE SEA. 


intending’ to reside in it herself. As for our food, we re^ 
ceive that from the Glaze.” 

“ But this cannot continue.” 

“ It must continue for a while.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ The future is not open to my eyes.” 

“ Judith, that has taken place at length which I have 
been long expecting.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” ^ 

“ This miserable condition of affairs has reached its 
climax, and there has been a turn.” 

Judith sighed. “ It has taken a turn, indeed.” 

“ Now that Captain Coppinger has been brought to 
his senses, and he sees that your resolve is not to be 
shaken, and he releases you, or you have released your- 
self from the thraldom you have been in. I do not 
suppose the popular account of the matter is true, 
wholly.” 

“ It is not at all true.” 

“ That matters not. The fact remains that you are out 
of Pentyre Glaze and your own mistress. The snare is 
broken and you are delivered.” 

Again Judith sighed, and she shook her head despond- 
ingly. 

“ You are free,” persisted Oliver, “ just consider. You 
were hurried through a^ marriage when insensible, and 
when you came to consciousness you did what was the 
only thing you could do — you absolutely refused your 
signature that would validate what had taken place. 
That was conclusive. That ceremony was as worthless 
as this sea-foam that blows by. No court in the world 
would hold that you were bound by it. The consent, 
the free consent, of each^ party in such a convention is 
essential. As to your being at Pent5rre, nothing against 
that can be alleged; Miss Trevisa was your aunt and 
constituted your guardian by your father. Your place 
was by her. To her you went when my father’s house 
was no longer at your service through my return. At 
Pentyre you remained as long as Miss Trevisa was there. 
She went, and at once you left the house.” 

“ You do not understand.” 

“ Excuse me, I think I do. But no matter as to de- 
tails. When your aunt went, you went also — as was 
proper under the circumstances. We have heard, I do 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


355 


not know whether it be true, that your aunt has come in 
for a good property.” 

“ For a little something.” 

“ Then, shall you go to her and reside with her ? ” 

“ No ; she will not have Jamie and me.” 

‘‘ So we supposed. Now my father has a proposal to 
make. The firm to which I belong has been good enough 
to take me into partnership, esteeming my services far 
higher than they deserve, and I am to live at Oporto, 
and act for them there. As my income will now be far 
larger than my humble requirements, I have resolved to 
allow my dear father sufficient for him to live upon com- 
fortably where he wills, and he has elected to follow me, 
and take up his abode in Portugal. Now what he has 
commissioned me to say is — will you go with him ? 
Will you continue to regard him as Uncle Zachie, and be 
to him as his dear little niece, and keep house for him 
in the sunny southern land ? ” 

Judith’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ And Jamie is included in the invitation. He is to 
come also, and help my father to stuff the birds of Por- 
tugal. A new ornithological field is opening before him, 
he says, and he must have help in it.” 

“ I cannot,” said Judith, in a low tone, with her head 
sunk on her breast. “ I cannot leave here till Captain 
Coppinger gives me leave.” 

“ But, surely, you are no longer bound to him ? ” 

“ He holds me faster than before.” 

“ I cannot understand this.” 

“ No ; because you do not know all.” 

“ Tell me the whole truth. Let me help you. Let my 
father help you. You little know how we both have our 
hearts in your service.” 

“ Well, I will tell you.” 

But she hesitated and trembled. She fixed her eyes 
on the wild, foaming, leaden sea, and pressed her bosom 
with both hands. 

“ I poisoned him.” 

“ Judith ! ” 

“ It is true, I gave him arsenic, once ; that your tamer 
had let me have for Jamie. If he had taken it the second 
time, when I offered it him in his bowl of porridge, he 
would be dead now. Do you see — he holds me in his 
hands and I cannot stir. I could not escape till I know 


356 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


what he intends to do with me. Now go — leave me to 
my fate.” 

“ Judith — it is not true ! Though I hear this from your 
lips I will not believe it. No; you need my father’s, 
you need my help more than ever.” He put her hand to 
his lips. “ It is white — innocent. I kmw it, in spite of 
your words.” 


CHAPTEK XLVm. 


TWO ALTEKNATIVES. 

Wlien Judith returned to Othello Cottage, she was 
surprised to see a man promenading around it, flattening 
his nose at the window, so as to bring his eyes against 
the glass, then, finding that the breath from his nostrils 
dimmed the pane, wiping the glass and again flattening 
his nose. At first he held his hands on the window- 
ledge, but being incommoded by the refraction of the 
light, put his open hands against the pane, one on each 
side of his face. Having satisfied himself at one case- 
ment, he went to another, and made the same desperate 
efforts to see in at that. 

Judith coming up to the door, and putting the key in, 
disturbed him, he started, turned, and with a nose much 
like putty, but rapidly purpling with returned circula- 
tion, disclosed the features of Mr. Scantlebray, Senior. 

“Ah, ha!” said that gentleman, in no way discon- 
certed ; “ here I have you, after having been looking for 
my orphing charmer in every direction but the right one. 
With your favor I will come inside and have a chat.” 

“Excuse me,” said Judith, “but I do not desire to 
admit visitors.” 

“But I am an exception. I’m the man who should 
have looked after your interests, and would have done it 
a deal better than others. And so there has been a 
rumpus, eh ? What about ? ” 

“ I really beg your pardon, Mr. Scantlebray, but I am 
engaged and cannot ask you to enter, nor delay convers- 
ing with you on the doorstep.” 

“ Oh, Jimminy I don’t consider me. I’ll stand on the 
doorstep and talk with you inside. Don’t consider me ; 
go on with what you have to do and let me amuse you. 
It must be dull and solitary here, but I Avill enliven you, 
though I have not my brother’s gifts. Now, Obadiah is 
a man with a genius for entertaining people. He missed 


358 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 


Lis way when he staited in life; he would have made a 
comic actor. Bless your simple heart, had that man 
appeared on the boards, he would have brought the 
house down ” 

“ I have no doubt whatever he missed his way when 
he took to keeping an asylum,” said Judith. 

“ We have all our gifts,” said Scantlebray. “ Mine is 
architecture, and ’pon my honor as a gentleman, I do 
admire the structure of Othello Cottage, uncommon. 
You won’t object to my pulling out my tape and taking 
the plan of the edifice, will you ? ” 

“ The house belongs to Captain Coppinger ; consult 
him.” 

‘‘My dear orphing, not a bit. I’m not on the best 
terms with that gent. There lies a tract of ruffled water 
between us. Not that I have given him cause for offence, 
but that he is not sweet upon me. He took off my hands 
the management of your aJfairs in the valuation business, 
and let me tell you — between me and you and that post 
yonder ” — he walked in and laid his hand on a beam — 
“ that he mismanaged it confoundedly. He is your hus- 
band, I am well aware, and I ought not to say this to you. 
He took the job into his hands because he had an eye 
to you, I knew that well enough. But he hadn’t the 
gift — the faculty. Now I have made all that sort of 
thing my specialty. How many rooms have you in this 
house ? What does that door lead to % ” 

“ Eeally, Mr. Scantlebray, you must excuse me ; I am 
busy.” 

“ O, yes — vastly busy. Walking on the cliffs, eh ) 
Alone, eh ? Well, mum is the word. Come, make me 
your friend and tell me all about it. How came you 
here? There are all kind of stories afloat about the 
quarrel between you and your husband, and he is an 
Eolus, a Blustering Boreas, all the winds in one box. 
Not surprised. He blew up a gale against me once. 
Domestic felicity is a fable of the poets. Home is a 
region of cyclones, tornadoes, hurricanes — what you 
like; anything but a Pacific Ocean. Now, you won’t 
mind my throwing an eye round this house, will you — 
a scientific eye ? Architecture is my passion.” 

“ Mr. Scantlebray, that is my bedroom ; I forbid you 
touching the handle. Excuse me — but I must request 
you to leave me in peace.” 


JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


859 


“ My dear creature/’ said Scantlebray, scientific 
thirst before all. It is unslakable save by the acquisition 
of what it desires. The structure of this house, as well 
as its object, has always been a puzzle to me. So your 
aunt was to have lived here — the divine, the fascinating 
Dionysia, as I remember her years ago. It wasn’t built 
for the lovely Dionysia, was it? No. Then for what 
object was it built? And why so long untenanted? 
These are nuts for you to crack.” 

“I do not trouble myself about these questions. I 
must pray you to depart.” 

“ In half the twinkle of an eye,” said Scantlebray. 
Then he seated himself. “ Come, you haven’t a supera- 
bundance of friends. Make me one and unburden your 
soul to me. What is it all about ? Why are you here ? 
What has caused this squabble ? I have a brother a 
solicitor at Bodmin. Let me jot down the items, and 
we’ll get a case out of it. Trust me as a friend, and I’ll 
have you righted. I hear Miss Trevisa has come in for 
a fortune. Be a good girl, set your back against her 
and show fight.” 

“ I will thank you to leave the house,” said Judith, 
haughtily. “ A moment ago you made reference to your 
honor as a gentleman. I must appeal to that same 
honor which you pride yourself on possessing, and, by 
virtue of that, request you to depart.” 

“ I’ll go. I’ll go. But, my dear child, why are you in 
such a hurry to get rid of me ? Are you expecting some 
one ? It is an odd thing, b^it as I came along I was 
overtaken by Mr. Oliver Menaida, making his way to the 
downs — to look at the sea, which is rough, and inhale 
the breeze of the ocean, of course. At one time, I am 
informed, you made daily visits to Polzeath, daily visits 
vhile Captain Coppinger was on the sea. Since his 
return, I am informed, these visits have been discon- 
tinued. Is it possible that instead of your visiting Mr. 
Oliver, Mr. Oliver is now visiting you — here, in this cot- 
tage ? ” 

A sudden slash across the back and shoulders made 
Mr. Scantlebray jump and bound aside. Coppinger 
had entered, and was armed with a stout walking- 
stick. 

“ What brings you here ? ” he asked. 

“I came to pay my respects to the grass-widow/' 


360 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


sneered Scantlebray, as he sidled to the door and bolted, 
but not till, with a face full of malignity, he had shaken 
his fist at Coppinger, behind his back. 

“ AVhat brings this man here ? ” asked the Captain. 

“Impertinence — nothing else,” answered Judith. 

“ What was that he said about Oliver Menaida ? ” 

“ His insolence will not bear reporting.” 

“You are right. He is a cur, and deserves to be 
kicked, not spoken to or spoken of. I heed him not. 
There is in him a grudge against me. He thought at one 
time that I would have taken his daughter — do you re- 
call speaking to me once about the girl that you sup- 
posed was a fit mate for me ? I laughed — I thought you 
had heard the chatter about Polly Scantlebray and me. 
A bold, fine girl, full of blood as a cherry is full of juice 
— one of the stock— but with better looks than the men, 
yet with the assurance, the effrontery of her father. A 
girl to laugh and talk with, not to take to one’s heart. I 
care for Polly Scantlebray ! Not I ! That man has 
never forgiven me the disappointment because I did not 
take her. I never intended to. I despised her. Now 
you know all. Now you see why he hates me. I do not 
care. I am his match. But I will not have him insolent 
to you. What did he say ? ” 

It was a relief to Judith that Captain Coppinger had 
not heard the words that Mr. Scantlebray had used. 
They would have inflamed his jealousy, and fired him 
into fury against the speaker. 

“ He told me that he had been passed, on his way 
hither, by Mr. Oliver Menaida, coming to the cliffs to in- 
hale the sea air and look at the angry ocean.” 

Captain Coppinger was satisfied, or pretended to be 
so. He went to the door and shut it, but not till he had 
gone outside and looked round to see, so Judith 
thought, whether Oliver Menaida were coming that way. 
quite as much as to satisfy himself that Mr. Scantlebray 
was not lurking round a corner listening. 

No ! Oliver Menaida would not come there. Of that 
Judith was quite sure. He had the delicacy of mind and 
the good sense not to risk her reputation by approach- 
ing Othello Cottage. When he had made that offer to 
her she had known that his own heart spoke, but he had 
veiled its speech and had made the offer as from his 
fp-ther, and in such a way as not to offend her. Only 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


361 


wlien she had accused herself of attempted murder did 
he break through his reserve to show her his rooted 
confidence in her innocence, in spite of her confession. 

When the door was fast, Coppinger came over to Ju- 
dith, and, standing at a little distance from her, said : 

“ Judith, look at me.” 

She raised her eyes to him. He was pale and his face 
lined, but he had recovered greatly since that day 
when she had seen him suffering from the effects of the 
poison. 

“ Judith,” said he, “I know all.” 

“ What do you know ? ” 

“ You did not poison me.” 

“ I mixed and prepared the bowl for you.” 

‘‘ Yes — but the poison had been put into the oatmeal 
before, not by you, not with your knowledge.” 

She was silent. She was no adept at lying ; she could 
not invent another falsehood to convince him of her 
guilt. 

“I know how it all came about,” pursued Captain Cop- 
pinger. “The cook, Jane, has told me. Jamie came 
into the kitchen with a blue paper in his hand, asked for 
the oatmeal, and put in the contents of the paper so 
openly as not in the least to arouse suspicion. Not till 
I was taken ill and made inquiries did the woman con- 
nect his act with what followed. I have found the blue 
paper, and on it it is written, in Mr. Menaida’s hand- 
writing, which I know, ‘ Arsenic. Poison : for Jamie, 
only to be used for the dressing of bird-skins, and a lim- 
ited amount to be served to him at a time.’ Now I am 
satisfied, because I know your character, and because I 
saw innocence in your manner when you came down to 
me on the second occasion, and dashed the bowl from my 
lips — I saw then that you were innocent.” 

Judith said nothing. Her eyes rested on the ground. 

“ I had angered that fool of a boy, I had beaten him. 
In a fit of sullen revenge, and without calculating either 
how best to do it, or what the consequences would be, 
he went to the place where he knew the arsenic was — 
Mr. Menaida had impressed on him the danger of play- 
ing with the poison — and he abstracted it. But he had 
not the wit or cunning generally present in idiots ” 

“ He is no idiot,” said Judith. 

“ NO; in fools,” said Coppinger, “ to put the poison into 


362 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


the oatmeal secretly when no one was in the kitchen. 
He asked the cook for the meal and ming'led the con- 
tents of the paper into it so openly as to disarm sus- 
picion.” 

He paused for Judith to speak, but she did not. 

He went on : ‘‘ Then you, in utter g-uilelessness, pre- 
pared my breakfeast for me, as instructed by Miss 
Trevisa. Next morning you did the same, but were 
either suspicious of evil through missing the paper 
from your cabinet, or drawer, or wherever you kept it, 
or else Jamie confessed to you what he had done. 
Thereupon you rushed to me to save me from taking 
another portion. I do not know^ that I would have 
taken it ; I had formed a half -suspicion from the burn- 
ing sensation in my throat, and from what I saw in the 
spoon — but there was no doubt in my mind after the first 
discovery that you were guiltless. I sought the whole 
matter out, as far as I was able. Jamie is guilty — not 
you.” 

“And,” said Judith, drawing a long breath, “what 
about Jamie % ” 

“There are two alternatives,” said Coppinger; “the 
boy is dangerous. Never again shall he come under my 
roof.” 

“ No,” spoke Judith, “no, he must not go to the Glaze 
again. Let him remain here with me. I will take care 
of him that he does mischief to no one. He would never 
have hurt you had not you hurt him. Forgive him, be- 
cause he was aggravated to it by the unjust and cruel 
treatment he received.” 

“The boy is a mischievous idiot,” said Coppinger; 
“ he must not be allowed to be at large.” 

“ What, then, are your alternatives ? ” 

“In the first place, I propose to send him back to 
that establishment whence he should never have been 
released, to Scantlebray’s Asylum.” 

“No — no — no!” gasped Judith. “You do not know 
what that place is. I do. I got into it. I saw how 
J amie had been treated.” 

“ He cannot be treated too severely. He is danger- 
ous. You refuse this alternative ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, I do.” 

“ Very well. Then I put the matter in the hands of 
justice, and he is proceeded against and convicted as 


m THE ROAR OE THE REA. 


363 


having attempted my life with poison. To jail he will 
go.” 

It was as Judith had feared. There were but two 
destinations for Jamie, her dear, dear brother, the son 
of that blameless father — jail or an asylum. 

“ Oh, no ! no — no ! not that ! ” cried Judith. 

“ One or the other. I give you six hours to choose,” 
said Coppinger. Then he went to the door, opened it, 
and stood looking seaward. Suddenly he started, “ Ha ! 
the Black Prince.” He turned in the door and said to 
Judith : “ One hour after sunset come to Pentyre Glaze. 
Come alone, and tell me your decision. I will wait for 
that.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


NOTHING LIKE GKOG. 

The Black Prince had been observed by Oliver Men- 
aida. He did not know for certain that the vessel he 
saw in the offing was the smuggler’s ship, but he sus- 
pected it, as he knew that Coppinger was in daily ex- 
pectation of her arrival. He brought his father to the 
cliffs, and the old man at once identified her. 

Oliver considered what was to be done. 

A feint was to be made at a point lower down the 
coast so as to attract the coastguard in that direction; 
■whereas, she was to run for Pentyre as soon as night 
fell, with all lights hidden, and to discharge her cargo 
in the little cove. 

Oliver knew pretty well who was confederate with 
Coppinger, or were in his employ. His father was able to 
furnish him with a good deal of information, not per- 
haps very well authenticated, all resting on gossip. He 
resolved to have a look at these men, and observe whether 
they were making preparations to assist Coppinger in 
clearing the Black Prince the moment she arrived off 
the cove. But he found that he had not far to look. 
They were drawn to the cliffs one after another to ob- 
serve the distant vessel. 

Oliver now made his way to the coastguard station, 
and to reach it went round by Wadebridge, and this he 
did because he wished to avoid being noticed going to 
the Preventive Station across the estuary at the Doom 
Bar above St. Enodoc. On reaching his destination he 
was shown into an ante-room, where he had to wait some 
minutes, because the captain happened to be engaged. 
He had plenty to occupy his mind. There was that 
mysterious confession of Judith that she had tried to 
poison the man who persisted in considering himself as 
her husband, in spite of her resistance, and who was 
holding her in a condition of bondage in his house. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


365 


Oliver did not for a moment believe that she had inten- 
tionally sought his life. He had seen enough of her to 
gauge her character, and he knew that she was incap- 
able of committing a crime. That she might have given 
poison in ignorance and by accident was possible ; how 
this had happened it v/as in vain for him to attempt to 
conjecture; he could, however, quite believe that an in- 
nocent and sensitive conscience like that of Judith might 
feel the pangs of self-reproach when hurt had come to 
Coppinger through her negligence. 

Oliver could also believe that the smuggler captain 
attributed her act to an evil motive. He was not the 
man to believe in guilelessness, and when he found that he 
had been partly poisoned by the woman whom he daily 
tortured almost to madness, he would at once conclude 
that a premeditated attempt had been made on his life. 
'What course would he pursue? Would he make this 
wretched business public and bring a criminal action 
against the unfortunate and unhappy girl who was 
linked to him against her will ? 

Oliver saw that if he could obtain Coppinger’s ar- 
rest on some such a charge as smuggling, he might 
prevent this scandal, and save Judith from much humil- 
iation and misery. He was therefore most desirous to 
effect the capture of Coppinger at once, and flagrante 
delicto. 

As he waited in the ante-room a harsh voice within 
was audible which he recognized as that of Mr. Scantle- 
bray. Presently the door was half opened, and he heard 
the coastguard captain say : 

“ I trust you rewarded the fellow for his information. 
You may apply to me ” 

“O royally, royally.” 

“ And for furnishing you with the code of signals ? ” 

“ Imperially — imperially.” 

“ That is well — never underpay in these matters.” 

“ Do not fear ! I emptied my pockets. And as to the 
information you have received through me — rely on it as 
you would on the Bank of England.” 

“ You have been deceived and befooled,” said Oliver, 
unable to resist the chance of delivering a^ slap at a 
man for whom he entertained a peculiar aversion, having 
heard much concerning him from his father. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 


S66 JiV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 

“ That the shilling- you gave the clerk for his infor- 
mation, and the half-crown for his signal table were 
worth what you got — the information was false, and was 
intended to mislead.” 

Scantlebray colored purple. “ What do you know ? 
You know nothing. You are in league with them.” 

“ Take care what you say,” said Oliver. 

“ I maintain,” said Scantlebray, somewhat cowed by 
his demeanor, “ that what I have said to the captain 
here is something of which you know nothing — and 
which is of importance to him to know.” 

“ And I maintain that you have been hoodwinked,” 
answered Oliver. “ But it matters not. The event will 
prove which of us is on the right track.” 

“ Yes,” laughed Scantlebray, “ so be it ; and let me 
bet you. Captain, and you Mr. Oliver Menaida — that I 
am on the scent of something else. I believe I know 
where Coppinger keeps his stores, and — but you shall 
see, and Ca]3tain Cruel also, ha, ha ! ” 

Eubbing his hands he went out. 

Then Oliver begged a word with the Preventive cap- 
tain, and told him what he had overheard, and also that 
he knew where was the cave in which the smugglers had 
their boat and to which they ran the cargo first, before 
removing it to their inland stores. 

“I’m not so certain the Black Prince dare venture 
nigh the coast to-night,” said the Captain, “ because of 
the sea and the on-shore wind. But the glass is rising 
and the wind may change. Then she’ll risk it for cer- 
tain. Now, look you here. I can’t go with you myself 
to-night, because I must be here ; and I can only let you 
have six men.” 

“ That will suffice.” 

“ Under Wyvill. I cannot, of course, put them under 
you, but Wyvill shall command. He bears a grudge 
against Coppinger, and will be rejoiced to have the 
chance of paying it out. But, mind you, it is possible 
that the Black Prince dare not run in, because of the 
weather, at Pentyre Cove, she may run somewhere else, 
either down the coast or higher up. Coppinger has other 
ovens than one. You know the term. His store-places 
are ovens. We can’t find them, but we know that there 
are several of them along the coast, just as there are a 
score of landing-places. When one is watched, then an* 


m THE ROAU OF THE SEA. 


367 


other is used, and that is how we are thrown out. There 
are plenty of folk interested in defrauding* the revenue 
in every parish between Hartland and Land’s End, and 
let the Black Prince, or any other smuggling* vessel ap- 
pear where she will, there she has ready helpers to shore 
her cargo, and convey it to the ovens. AVhen we appear 
it is signalled at once to the vessel, and she runs away 
up or down the coast, and discharges somewhere else, 
before we can reach the point. Now, I do not say that 
what you tell me is not true, and that it is not Cop- 
pinger’s intent to land the goods in the Pentyre Cove, 
but if we are smelt, or if the wind or sea forbid a landing 
there, away goes the Black Prince and runs her cargo 
somewhere else. That is why I cannot accompany you, 
nor can I send you with more than half a dozen men. I 
must be on the look out, and I must be xirepared in the 
event of her coming suddenly back and attempting to 
land her goods at Porthleze, or Constantine, or Har- 
lyn. What you shall do is — remain here with me till 
near dusk, and then you shall have a boat and my men 
and get round Pentyre, and you shall take possession of 
that cave. You shall take with you provisions for twenty- 
four hours. If the Black Prince intends to make that 
bay and discharge there, then she will wait her oi3por- 
tunity. If she cannot to-night, she will to-morrow 
night. Now, seize every man who comes into that cave, 
and don’t let him out. You see ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ Very well. Wyvill shall be in command, and you 
shall be the guide, and I will speak to him to pay proper 
attention to what you recommend. You see ? ” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Very well — now we shall have something to eat and 
to drink, which is better, and drink that is worth the 
drinking, which is best of all. Here is some cognac, 
it was run goods that we captured and confiscated. Look 
at it. I wish there were artificial light and you would 
see, it is liquid amber— a liqueur. When you’ve tasted 
that, ah— ha ! you will say, ‘ Glad I lived to this moment.’ 
There is all the difference, my boy, between your best 
cognac and common brandy — the one, the condensed 
sunshine in the queen of fruit sublimed to an essence ; 
the other, coarse, raw fire — all the difference that there 
is between a princess of blood royal and a gypsy 


368 


IN THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


wencli. Drink and do not fear. This is not the stuff to 
smoke the head and clog the stomach.” 

When Oliver Menaida finally started, he left the first 
officer of the coastguard, in spite of his assurances, some- 
what smoky in brain, and not in the condition to form 
the clearest estimate of what should be done in a con- 
tingency. The boat was laden with provisions for twen- 
ty-four hours, and placed under the command of Wyvill. 

The crew had not rowed far before one of them sang 
out : 

“ Gearge ! ” 

“ Aye, aye, mate ! ” responded Wyvill. 

“ I say, Gearge. Be us a going round Pentyre ? ” 

“I reckon we be.” 

“ And wet to the marrowbone we shall be.” 

I reckon we shall.” 

Then a pause in the conversation. Presently from 
another, “ Gearge ! ” 

“ Aye, aye. Will ! ” 

“ I say Gearge ! where be the spirits to ? There’s a keg 
o’ water, but sure alive the spirits be forgotten.” 

Bless my body ! ” exclaimed Wyvill, “ I reckon you’re 
right. Here’s a go.” 

“ It will never do for us to be twenty-four hours wi’ 
salt water outside of us and fresh wi’in,” said Will. 
What’s a hat wi’out a head in it, or boots wi’out feet in 
’em, or a man wi’out spirits in his in’ard parts ? ” 

“Dear, alive! ’Tis a nuisance,” said Wyvill. “Who’s 
been the idiot to forget the spirits ? ” 

“ Gearge ! ” 

“ Aye, aye, Samson I ” 

“ I say, Gearge I hadn’t us better run over to the Rock 
and get a little anker there *? ” 

“I reckon it wouldn’t be amiss, mate,” responded 
Wyvill. To Oliver’s astonishment and annoyance, the 
boat was turned to run across to a little tavern, at what 
was called “ The Rock.” 

He remonstrated. This was injudicious and unneces- 
sary. 

“ Onnecessary,” said Wyvill. “ Why, you don’t sup- 
pose firearms will go off wi’out a charge ? It’s the same 
wi’ men. What’s the good of a human being unless he 
be loaded — and what’s his proper load but a drop o 
spirits.” 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


369 


Then one of the rowers sang out : 

“ Water-drinkers are dull asses 
When they’re met together. 

Milk is meat for infancy ; • 

Ladies like to sip Bohea ; 

Not such stuff for you and me, 

\Vhen we’re met together.” 

Oliver was not surprised that so few captures were ef- 
fected on the coast, when those set to watch it loved so 
dearly the very goods they were to watch against being 
imported untaxed. 

On reaching the shore, the man Samson and another 
were left in charge of the boat, while Wyvill, Will, and 
the rest went up to the Rock Inn to have a glass for the 
good of the house, and to lade themselves with an anker 
of brandy which, during their wait in the cave, was to 
be distributed among them. Oliver thought it well to 
go to the tavern as well. He was impatient and thought 
they would dawdle there, and, perhaps, take more than 
the nip to which they professed themselves content to 
limit themselves. Pentyre Point had to be rounded in 
rough water, and they must be primed to enable them to 
round Pentyre. 

“ You see,” said Wyvill, who seemed to suppose that 
some sort of an explanation of his conduct was due. 
“When ropes be dry they be terrible slack. Wet ’em 
and they are taut. It is the same wi’ men’s muscles. 
"Wq’yb Pentyre Point to get round. Yery strainin’ to the 
arms, and I reckon it couldn’t be done unless we wetted 
the muscles. That’s reason. That’s convincin’.” 

At the Rock Tavern the Preventive men found the 
clerk of S. Enodoc, with his hands in his pockets, on 
the settle, his legs stretched out before him, considering 
one of his knees that was threadbare, and trying to make 
up his mind whether the trouser would hold out another 
day without a thread being run through the thin por- 
tion, and whether if a day, then perhaps two days, and 
if perchance for two days, then for three. But if for 
three, then why not for four ? And if for four, then pos- 
sibly for five— anyhow, as far as he could judge, there 
was no immediate call for him to have the right knee of 
his trouser repaired that day. 

The sexton-clerk looked up when the party entered, 


370 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


and greeted them each man by name, and a conversation 
ensued relative to the weather. Each described his own 
impressions as to what the weather had been, and his an- 
ticipations as to what it would be.” 

“ And how’s your missus % ” 

“ Middlin’ — and yours ? ” 

“ Same, thanky’. A little troubled wi’ the rheumat- 
ics.” 

“ Tell her to take a lump o’ sugar wi’ five drops o’ 
turpentine.” 

“ I will, thanky ” — and so on for half an hour, at 
the end of which time the party thought it time to rise, 
wipe their mouths, shoulder the anker, and return to 
the boat. 

No sooner were they in it, and had thrust off from 
shore, and prepared to make a second start, than Oliver 
touched Wy vill and said, pointing to the land, “ Look 
yonder.” 

“ What ! ” 

“ There is that clerk. Eunning, actually running.” 

“ I reckon he be.” 

“ And in the direction of Pentyre.” 

“ So he be, I reckon.” 

“ And what do you think of that ? ” 

“ Nothing,” answered Wyvill, confusedly. ‘‘Why 
should I % He can’t say nothing about where we be go- 
ing. Not a word of that was said while us was there. 
I don’t put no store on his running.” 

“ I do,” said Oliver, unable to smother his annoyance. 
“ This folly will spoil our game.” 

Wyvill muttered, “ I reckon I’m head of the consarn 
and not you.” 

Oliver deemed it advisable, as the words were said 
low, to pretend that he did not hear them. 

The wind had somewhat abated, but the sea was run- 
ning furiously round Pentyre. Happily the tide was go- 
ing out, so that tide and wind were conflicting, and this 
enabled the rowers to get round Pentyre between the 
Point and the Newland Isle, that broke the force of the 
seas. But when past the shelter of Newland, doubling 
a spur of Pentyre that ran to the north, the rowers had 
to use their utmost endeavors, and had not their mus- 
cles been moistened they might possibly have declared 
it impossible to proceed. It was advisable to run into 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


371 


the cove just after dark, and before the turn of the tide, 
as, in the event of the Black Prince attempting* to land 
her cargo there, it would be made with the flow of the 
tide, and in the darkness. 

The cove was reached and found to be deserted. Oli- 
ver showed the way, and the boat was driven up on the 
shingle and conveyed into the smugglers’ cave behind 
the rock curtain. No one was there. Evidently, from 
the preparations made, the smugglers were ready for the 
run of the cargo that night. 

“ Now,” said Will, one of the Preventive men, “ us hev’ 
a’ labored uncommon. AVhat say you, mates ? Does us 
desarve a drop of refreshment or does us not % Every 
man as does his dooty by his country and his king 
should be paid for ’t, is my doctrine. What do y’ say, 
Gearge ? Barve out the grog “? ” 

“ I reckon yes. Sarve out the grog. There’s nothing 
like grog — I think it was Solomon said that, and he was 
the wisest of men.” 

“ For sure ; he made a song about it,” said one of the 
coastguard. “ It begins : 

“ ‘ A plague of those musty old lubbers. 

Who tell us to fast and to think, 

And patient fall in with life’s rubbers, 

With nothing but water to drink.’ ” 

“ To be sure,” responded Wy vill, “ never was a truer 
word said than when Solomon was called the wisest o 


men. 


CHAPTEE L. 


PLAYING rOEFEITS. 

“ Here am I once more,” said Mr. Scantlebray, walking 
into Othello Cottage with a rap at the door but without 
waiting for an invitation to enter. “ Come back like the 
golden summer, but at a quicker rate. How are you 
all ? I left you rather curtly — without having had time 
to pay my proper coiigL 

Judith and Jamie were sitting over the fire. No can- 
dle had been lighted, for, though a good many things 
had been brought over to Othello Cottage for their use, 
candles had been forgotten, and Judith did not desire to 
ask for more than was furnished her, certainly not to go 
to the Glaze for the things needed. They had a fire, 
but not one that blazed. It was of drift-wood, that 
smouldered and would not flame, and as it burned emitted 
a peculiar odor. 

Jamie was in good spirits, he chattered and laughed, 
and Judith made pretence that she listened, but her 
mind was absent, she had cares that had demands on 
every faculty of her mind. Moreover, now and then her 
thoughts drifted off to a picture that busy fancy painted 
and dangled before them — of Portugal, with its woods of 
oranges, golden among the burnished leaves, and its 
vines hung with purple grapes — with its glowing sun, 
its blue glittering sea — and, above all, she mused on the 
rest from fears, the cessation from troubles which would 
have ensued, had there been a chance for her to accept 
the offer made, and to have left the Cornish coast for 
ever. 

Looking into the glowing ashes, listening to her 
thoughts as they spoke, and seeming to attend to the 
prattle of the boy, Judith was surprised by the entry of 
Mr. Scantlebray. 

“ There — disengaged, that is capital,” said the agent. 
‘‘ The very thing I hoped. And now we can have a talk. 


IW THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


373 


You have never understood that I was your sincere 
friend. You have turned from me and looked elsewhere, 
and now you suffer for it. But I am like all the best- 
metal — strong* and bright to the last ; and see — I have 
come to you now to forewarn you, because I thought that 
if it came on you all at once there would be trouble and 
bother.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Scantlebray. It is true that we are 
not busy just now, but it does not follow that we are 
disposed for a talk. It is growing dark, and we shall 
lock up the cottage and go to bed.” 

“ Oh, I will not detain you long. Besides I’ll take the 
wish out of your heart for bed in one jiffy. Look here 
— read this. Do you know the handwriting ? ” 

He held out a letter. Judith reluctantly took it. She 
had risen ; she had not asked Scantlebray to take a seat. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ that is the writing of Captain Cop- 
pinger.” 

“ A good bold hand,” said the agent, “ and see here is 
his seal with his motto. Thorough. You know that ? ” 

“ Yes — it is his seal.” 

“Now read it.” 

Judith knelt at the hearth. 

“ Blow, blow the fire up, my beauty,” called Scantle- 
bray to Jamie. “Don’t you see that your sister wants 
light, and is running the risk of blinding her sweet 
pretty eyes.” Jamie puffed vigorously and sent out 
sparks snapping and blinking, and brought the wood to 
a white glow, by which Judith was able to decipher the 

It was a formal order from Cruel Coppinger to Mr. 
Obadiah Scantlebray to remove James Trevisa that even- 
ing, after dark, from Othello Cottage to his idiot asylum, 
to remain there in custody till further notice. Judith 
remained kneeling, with her eyes on the letter, after she 
had read it. She was considering. It was clear to her 
that directly after leaving her Captain Coppinger had 
formed his own resolve, either impatient of waiting the 
six hours he had allowed her, or because he thought the 
alternative of the Asylum the only one that could be ac- 
cepted by her, and it was one that would content him- 
self, as the only one that avoided exposure of a scandal. 
But there were other asylums than that of Scantlebray, 
and others were presumably better managed, and those 


374 


m THE ROAR OE THE SEA. 


in charge less severe in their dealings. She had consid- 
ered this, as she looked into the tire. But a new idea 
* had also at the same time lightened in her mind, and she 
had a third alternative to propose. 

She had been waiting for the moment when to go to 
the Glaze and see Coppinger, and just at the moment 
when she was about to send Jamie to bed and leave the 
house Scantlebray came in. 

“ Now then,” said the agent, “ what do you think of 
me — that I am a real friend % ” 

“ I thank you for having told me this,” answered Judith, 
‘‘ and now I will go to Pentyre. I beg that you will not 
allow my brother to be conveyed away during my ab- 
sence. Wait till I return. Perhaps Captain Coi^pinger 
may not insist on the removal at once. If you are a real 
friend, as you profess, you will do this for me.” 

“ I will do it willingly. That I am a real friend I have 
shown you by my conduct. I have come beforehand to 
break news to you which might have been too great and 
too overwhelming had it come on you suddenly. My 
brother and a man or two will be here in an hour. Go by 
all means to Captain Cruel, but,” Scantlebray winked 
an eye, “I don’t myself think you will prevail with him.” 

“I will thank you to remain here for half an hour 
with Jamie,” said Judith, coldly. “ And to stay all pro- 
ceedings till my return. If I succeed — well. If not, 
then only a few minutes have been lost. I have that to 
say to Captain Coppinger which may, and I trust will, 
lead him to withdraw that order.” 

“ Rely on me. I am a rock on which you may build,” 
said Scantlebray. “ I will do my best to entertain your 
brother, though, alas ! I have not the abilities of Oba- 
diah, who is a genius, and can keep folks hour by hour 
going from one roar of laughter into another.” 

No sooner was Judith gone than Scantlebray put his 
tongue into one side of his cheek, clicked, pointed over 
his shoulder with his thumb, and seated himself oppo- 
site Jamie on the stool beside the fire which had been 
vacated by Judith. Jamie had understood nothing of 
the conversation that had taken place, his name had not 
been mentioned, and consequently his attention had not 
been drawn to it away from some chestnuts he had found, 
or which had been given to him, that he was baking in 
the ashes on the hearth. 


/iV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


375 


Fond of hunting, eh ? ” asked Scantlebray, stretching 
his legs and rubbing his hands. “ You are like me— like 
to be in at the death. What do you suppose I have in 
my pocket ? Why, a fox with a fiery tail. Shall we run 
him to earth ? Shall we make an end of him % Tally- 
ho ! Tally-ho ! here he is. Oh, sly Eeynard, I have you 
by the ears.” And forth from the tail-pocket of his 
coat Scantlebray produced a bottle of brandy. “ What 
say you, corporal, shall we drink his blood ? Bring me 
a couple of glasses and Til pour cut his gore.” 

“I haven’t any,” said Jamie. “Ju and I have two 
mugs, that is all.” 

“ And they will do famously. Here goes — off with the 
mask ! ” and with a blow he knocked away the head and 
cork of the bottle. “No more running away for you, 
my beauty, except down our throats. Mugs! That is 
famous. Come, shall we play at army and navy, and the 
forfeit be a drink of Eeynard’s blood ? ” 

Jamie pricked up his ears; he was always ready for a 
game of play. 

“ Look here,” said Scantlebray. “ You are in the mili- 
tary, I am in the nautical line. Each must address the 
other by some title in accordance with the profession 
each professes, and the forfeit of failure is a pull at the 
bottle. What do you say ? I will begin. Set the bottle 
there between us. Now then. Sergeant, they tell me 
your aunt has come in for a fortune. How much What 
is the figure, eh ? ” 

“I don’t know,” responded Jamie, and was at once 
caught up with “ Forfeit ! forfeit ! ” 

“ Oh, by Jimminy, there am I, too, in the same box. 
Take your swig. Commander, and pass to me.” 

“ But what am I to call you ? ” asked the puzzle-headed 

“ Mate, or captain, or boatswain, or admiral.” 

“ I can’t remember all that.” 

“ Mate will do. Always say mate, whatever you ask 
or answer. Do you understand. General ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Forfeit ! forfeit ! You should have said ‘ Yes, 
mate.’” Mr. Scantlebray put his hands to his sides 
and laughed. “ Oh, Jimminy ! there am I again. The 
instructor as bad as the pupil. I’m a bad fellow as in- 
structor, that I am, Field-Marshal So— your Aunt Di- 


376 


-IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


onysia lias come in for some thousands of pounds — how 
many do you think ? Have you heard ? ” 

“ I think I’ve heard ” 

“Mate! Mate!” 

“ I think I’ve heard, Mate.” 

“Now, how many do you remember to have heard 
named ? Was it five thousand % That is what I heard 
named — eh. Captain ” 

“Oh, more than that,” said Jamie, in his small mind 
catching at a chance of talking big, “ a great lot more 
than that.” 

“ What, ten thousand ? ” 

“ I dare say ; yes, I think so.” 

“ Forfeit ! forfeit ! pull again. Centurion.” 

“Yes, Mate, I’m sure.” 

“Ten thousand — why, at five per cent, that’s a nice 
little sum for you and Ju to look forward to when the 
old hull springs a leak and goes to the bottom.” 

“ Yes,” answered Jamie, vaguely. He could not look 
beyond the day, moreover he did not understand the fig- 
urative- speech of his comrade. 

“ Forfeit again. General ! But I’ll forgive you this 
time, or you’ll get so drunk you’ll not be able to answer 
me a question. Bless my legs and arms ! on that iDretty 
little sum one could afibrd one’s self a new tie every 
Sunday. You will prove a beau and buck indeed some 
day. Captain of Thousands ! And then you won’t live in 
this little hole. By the Avay, I hear old Dunes Trevisa, 
I beg pardon, Field-Marshal Sir James, I mean your 
much respected aunt. Miss Trevisa, has got a charming 
box down by S. Austell. You’ll ask me down for the 
shooting, won’t you, Commander-in-Chief % ” 

“ Yes, I will,” answered Jamie. 

“ And you’ll give me the best bedroom, and will have 
choice dinners, and the best old tawny port, eh ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure,” said the boy, flattered. 

“ Mate ! mate ! forfeit ! and I suppose you’ll keep a 
hunter ? ” 

“I shall have two — three,” said Jamie. 

“ And if I were you. I’d keep a pack of fox hounds.” 

“I will.” 

“ That’s for the winter, and other hounds for the sum- 
mer.” 

“ I am sure I will^ and wear a red coat/’ 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 377 

“ Famous ! but — there I spare you this time — you for- 
feited again.” 

“ No, I won't be spared,” protested the boy. 

“ As for a wretched little hole like this Othello Cot- 
tage ” said Scantlebray. “ But, by the bye, you have 

■never shown me over the house. How many rooms are 
there in it, Generalissimo of His Majesty’s Forces ? ” 

“There’s my bedroom there,” said Jamie. 

“ Yes ; and that door leads to your sister’s ? ” 

“ Yes. And there’s the kitchen.” 

“ And up -stairs ? ” 

“ There’s no up-stairs.” 

“ Now, you are very clever — clever. By Ginger, you 
must be to be Commander-in-chief ; but ’pon my word, 
I can’t believe that. No up-stairs. There must be up- 
stairs.” 

“ No, there’s not.” 

“ But by Jimminy ! with such a roof as this house has 
got, and a little round window in the gable. There must 
be an upstairs.” 

“ No there’s not.” 

“ How do you make that out % ” 

“ Because there are no stairs at all.” Then Jamie 
jumped up, but rolled on one side, the brandy he had 
drunk had made him unsteady. “ I’ll show you mate — 
mate — yes, mate. There three times now will do for 
times I haven’t said it. There — in my room. The floor 
is rolling ; it won’t stay steady. There are cramps in 
the wall, no stairs, and so you get up to where it all is.” 

“ All what is ? ” 

“ Forfeit, forfeit ! ” shouted Jamie. “ Say general or 
something military. I don’t know. Ju won’t let me go 
up there ; but there’s tobacco, for one thing.” 

“ Where’s a candle. Corporal ? ” 

“ There is none. We have no light but the fire.” 
Then Jamie dropped back on his stool, unable to keep 
his legs. 

“ I am more provident than you. I have a lantern out- 
side, unlighted, as I thought I might need it on my re- 
turn. The nights close in very fast and very dark now, 
eh. Commander ? ” 

Mr. Scantlebray went outside the cottage, looked 
about him, specially directing his eyes toward the Glaze. 
Then he chuckled and said ; 


378 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Sent Miss Judith on a wild-goose chase, have I ? Ah 
ha ! Captain Copx^inger, I’ll have a little entertainment 
for you to-night. The preventives will snatch your goods 
at Porfchleze or Constantine, and here — behind your back 
— I’ll attend to your store of tobacco and whatever else 
I may find.” 

Then he returned and going to the fire extracted the 
candle from the lantern and lighted it at a burning 
log. 

“ Halloa, Captain of thousands ! Going to sleep ? 
There’s the bottle. You must make up forfeits. You’ve 
been dishonest I fear and not paid half. That door did 
you say ? ” 

But Jamie was past understanding a question, and 
Mr. Scantlebray could find out for himself now what he 
wanted to know. That this house had been used by 
Coppinger as a store for some of the smuggled cargoes 
he had long suspected, but he had never been able to 
obtain any evidence which would justify the coastguard 
in applying to the justices for a search-warrant. Now 
he would be able to look about it at his leisure, while 
Judith was absent. He did not sux)pose Coppinger was 
at the Glaze. He assumed that an attem]3t would be 
made, as the clerk of St. Enodoc had informed him, to 
land the cargo of the Black Prince to the vrest of the 
estuary of the Camel, and he supposed that Coppinger 
would be there to superintend. He had used the letter 
sent to his brother to induce the girl to go to Pentyre, 
and so leave the cottage clear for him to search it. 

Now, holding the candle, he entered the bedroom of 
Jamie, and soon perceived the cramps the boy had 
spoken of that served in place of stairs. Above was a 
door into the attic, whitewashed over, like the walls. 
Mr. Scantlebray climbed, thrust open the door and crept 
into the garret. 

“ Ah, ha ! ” said the valuer. “ So, so, Captain ! I have 
come on one of your lairs at last. And I reckon I will 
make it warm for you. But, by Ginger, it is a pity I 
pan’t remove some of what is here.” 

He prowled about in the roomy loft, searching every 
corner. There were a few small kegs of spirit, but the 
stores were mostly of tobacco. 

In about ten minutes Mr. Scantlebray reappeared in 
the room where was Jamie. He was without his candle. 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 379 

The poor boy, overcome by what he had drunk, had fallen 
on the floor and was in a tipsy sleep. 

Scantlebray went to him. 

“ Come along with me,” he said. “ Come, there is no 
time to be lost. Come, you fool ! ” 

He shook him, but Jamie would not be roused, he 
kicked and struck out with his fists. 

“ You won’t come ? I’ll make you.” 

Then Scantlebray caught the boy by the shoulders to 
drag him to the door. The child began to struggle and 
resist. 

“ Oh ! I’m not concerned for you, fool,” said Scantle- 
bray. “ If you like to stay and take your chance — my 
brother will be here to carry you off presently. Will 
you come ? ” 

Scantlebray caught the boy by the feet and tried to 
drag him, but Jamie clung to the table-legs. 

Scantlebray uttered an oath — “ Stay, you fool, and be 
smothered! The world will get on very well without 
you.” 

And he strode forth from the cottage. 


OHAPTEE LI 


SUKEENDER. 

Scantlebray was mistaken. Copping’er had not crossed 
the estuary of the Camel. He was at Pentyre Glaze 
awaiting the time when the tide suited for landing the 
cargo of the Black Prince. In the kitchen were a num- 
ber of men having their supper and drinking, waiting 
also for the proper moment when to issue forth. 

At the turn of the tide the Black Prince would approach 
in the gathering darkness and would come as near in as 
she dare venture. The wind had fallen, but the sea was 
running, and with the tide setting in she would approach 
the cove. 

Judith hastened toward the Glaze. Darkness had set 
in, but in the north were auroral lights, first a great, 
white halo, then rays that shot up to the zenith, and 
then a mackerel sky of rosy light. The growl and mut- 
ter of the sea filled the air with threat like an angry 
multitude surging on with blood and destruction in their 
hearts. 

The flicker overhead gave Judith light for her cause; 
the snow had melted except in ditches and under hedges, 
and there it glared red or white in response to the chang- 
ing, luminous tinges of the heavens. When she reached 
the house she at once entered the hall ; there Coppinger 
was awaiting her. He knew she would come to’ him when 
her mind was made up on the alternatives he had offered 
her, and he believed he knew pretty surely which she 
would choose. It was because he expected her that he 
had not suffered the men collected for the work of the 
night to invade the hall. 

“ You are here,” he said. . He was seated by the fire ; he 
looked up, but did not rise. “ Almost too late.” 

“ Almost, maybe, but not altogether,” answered Judith. 
“And yet it seems unnecessary, as you have already 
acted without awaiting my decision.” 


IJSr TUE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


381 


“ What makes you say that ? ” 

“I have been shown your letter.” 

“ Oh Obadiah Scantlebray is premature.” 

“ He is not at Othello Cottage yet. His brother came 
beforehand to prepare me.” 

“ How considerate of your feelings,” sneered Captain 
Cruel. “I would not have expected that of Scantle- 
bray.” 

“ You have not awaited my decision,” said Judith. 

“ That is true,” answered Coppinger, carelessly. “ I 
knew you would shrink from the exposure, the disgrace 
of publication of what has occurred here. I knew you so 
well that I could reckon beforehand on what you would 
elect.” 

“But, why to Scantlebray? Are there not other 
asylums ? ” 

“ Yes : so long as that boy is placed where he can do no 
mischief, I care not.” 

“ Then, if that be so, I have another proposal to 
make.” 

“What is that ? ” Coppinger stood up. 

“ If you have any regard for my feelings, any care for 
my happiness, you will grant my request.” 

“Let me hear it.” 

“ Mr. Menaida is going to Portugal.” 

“ What ! ” — in a tone of concentrated rage — “ Oliver ? ” 

“ Oliver and his father. But the proposal concerns the 
father.” 

“ Go on.” Coppinger strode once across the room, 
then back again. “ Go on,” he said, savagely. 

“ Old Mr. Menaida offers to take Jamie with him. He 
intends to settle at Oporto, near his son, who has been 
appointed to a good situation there. He will gladly un- 
dertake the charge of Jamie. Let Jamie go with them. 
There he can do no harm.” 

“ What, go — without you ? Did they not want you to 
go, also ? ” 

Judith hesitated and flushed. There was a single tal- 
low candle on the table. Coppinger took it up, snuffed 
it, and held the flame to her face to study its expres- 
sion. “I thought so,” he said, and put down the light 
again. 

“Jamie is useful to Mr. Menaida,” pleaded Judith, in 
some confusion, and with a voice of tremulous apology. 


382 


IJSr THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 


“ He stuffs birds so beautifully, and Uncle Zacbie — I 
mean Mr. Menaida — lias set his heart on making* a col- 
lection of the Spanish and Portuguese birds.” 

“ Oh, yes ; he understands the proiierties of arsenic,” 
said Coppinger, with a scoff. 

Judith’s eyes fell. Captain Cruel’s tone was not re. 
assuring. 

“ You say that you care not where Jamie be, so long as 
he is where he cannot hurt you,”.said Judith. 

“ I did not say that,” answered Coppinger. “ I said 
that he must be placed where he can injure no one.” 

“ He can injure no one if he is with Mr. Menaida, who 
will well watch him, and keep him employed.” 

Coppinger laughed bitterly. “ And you ? Will you be 
satisfied to have the idolized brother with the deep seas 
rolling between you ? ” 

“ I must endure it. It is the least of evils.” 

“ But you would be pining to have wings and fly over 
the sea to him.” 

“ If I have not wings I cannot go.” 

“ Now hearken,” said Coppinger. He clinched his 
fist and laid it on the table. “ I know very well what 
this means. Oliver Menaida is at the bottom of this. 
It is not the fool Jamie who is wanted in Portugal, but 
the clever Judith. They have offered to take the boy, 
that through him they may attract you, unless,” his voice 
thrilled, “ they have already dared to proj)ose that you 
should go with them.” 

Judith was silent. 

Coppinger clinched his second hand and laid that 
also on the table. “I swear to heaven,” said he, “that 
if I and that Oliver Menaida meet again, it is for the 
last time for one or other of us. We have met twice 
already. It is an understood thing between us, when we 
meet again, one wets his boots in the other’s blood. Do 
you hear ? The world will not hold us two any longer. 
Portugal may be far off, but it is too near Cornwall for 
me.” 

Judith made no answer. She looked fixedly into the 
gloomy eyes of Coppinger, and said — 

“You have strange thoughts. Suppose — if you will 
— that the invitation included me, I could not have ac- 
cepted it.” 

“ Why not ? You refuse to regard yourself as married, 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


383 


and if unmarried, you are free — and if free, ready to 
elope with ” he would not utter the name in his quiv- 

ering’ fury. 

“I pray you,” said Judith, offended, “do not insult 
me.” 

“ I — insult you ? It is a daily insult to me to be treated 
as I have been. It is driving me mad.” 

“ But, do you not see,” urged Judith, “ you have of- 
fered me two alternatives and I ask for a third, yours 
are jail or an asylum, mine is exile. Both yours are to 
me intolerable. Conceive of my state were Jamie either 
in jail or Avith Mr. Scantlebray. In jail — and I should 
be thinking of him all day and all night in his prison 
garb, tramping the tread-mill, beaten, driven on, associ- 
ated with the vilest of men, an indelible stain put, not 
on him only, but on the name of our dear, dear father. 
Do you think I could bear that ? or take the other alter- 
native ? I know the Scantlebrays. I should have the 
thoughts of Jamie distressed, frightened, solitary, ill- 
treated, ever before me. I had it for a few hours once 
and it drove me frantic. It would make me mad in a 
week. I know that I could not endure it. Either alter- 
native would madden or kill me. And I offer another 
— if he were in exile, I could at least think of him as 
happy among the orange groves, in the vineyards, 
among kind friends, happy, innocent — at worst, forget- 
ting me. That I could bear. But the other — no, not for 
a week — they would be torture insufferable.” She spoke 
full of feverish vehemence, with her hands outspread be- 
fore her. 

“And this smiling vision of Jamie happy in Portugal 
would draw your heart from me.” 

“ You never had my heart,” said Judith. 

Coppinger clinched his teeth. “ I will hear no more 
of this,” said he. 

Then Judith threw herself on her knees, and caught 
him and held him, lifting her entreating face toward 
his. 

“ I have undergone it — for some hours. I know it will 
madden or kill me. I cannot — I cannot — I cannot,” she 
could scarce breathe, she spoke in gasps. 

“ You cannot what ? ” he asked, sullenly. 

“ I cannot live on the terms you offer. You take from 
me even the very wish to live. Take away the arsenic 


384 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


from me — lest in madness I give it to myself. Take me 
far inland from these clitfs— lest in my madness I throw 
myself over — I could not bear it. Will nothing move 
you ? ” 

“ Nothing.” He stood before her, his feet apart, his 
arms folded, his chin on his breast, looking into her up- 
lifted, imploring face. “ Yes — one thing. One thing 
only.” He paused, raking her face with his eyes. “ Yes 
— one thing. Be mine wholly — unconditionally. Then 
I will consent. Be mine ; add your name where it is 
wanting. Eesume your ring— and Jamie shall go with 
the Menaidas. Now, choose.” 

He drew back. Judith remained kneeling, upright, on 
the floor with arms extended — she had heard and at 
first hardly comprehended him. Then she staggered to 
her feet. 

“ AVell,” said Coppinger, “ what answer do you make ? 
Still she could not speak. She went to the table with 
uncertain steps. There was a wooden form by it. She 
seated herself on this, placed her arms on the board, 
joining her hands, and laid her head, face downward, be- 
tween them on the table. 

Coppinger remained where he was, watching and wait- 
ing. He knew what her action implied — that she was to 
be left alone with her thoughts, to form her resolve un- 
disturbed. He remained, accordingly, motionless, but 
with his eyes fixed on the golden hair that flickered in 
the dim light of the one candle. The wick had a great 
fungus in it — so large and glaring that in another mo- 
ment it must fall, and fall on Judith’s hand. Coppinger 
saw this and he thrust forth his arm to snuff the candle 
with his fingers, but his hand shook, and the light was 
extinguished. It mattered not. There were glowing 
coals on the hearth, and through the window flared and 
throbbed the auroral lights. 

A step sounded outside. Then a hand was on the 
door. Coppinger at once strode across the hall, and 
arrested the intruder from entering. 

“ Who is that ? ” 

“Hender Pendarvis” — the clerk of St. Enodoc. “I 
have some’ut partickler I must say.” 

Coppinger looked at Judith ; she lay motionless, her 
head between her arms on the board. He partly opened 
the door and stepped forth into the porch. 


TN THE nOAU OF THE SEA. 385 

When he had heard what the clerk of St. Enoaoc had 
to say, he answered with an order, “ Eound to the kitchen 
— bid the men arm, and g-o by the beach.” 

He returned into the hall, went to the fireplace and 
took down a pair of pistols, tried them that they were 
charg*ed, and thrust them into his belt. 

Next he went up to Judith, and laid his hand on her 
shoulder. 

“Time presses,” he said; “I have to be off. Your 
answer.” She looked up. The board was studded with 
drops of water. She had not wept, these stains were not 
her tears, they were the sweat of anguish off her brow 
that had run over the board. 

“ Well, Judith, your answer.” 

“ I accept.” 

“ Unreservedly % 

“ Unreservedly.” 

“ Stay,” said he. He spoke low, indistinctly articulated 
sentences. “ Let there be no holding back between us. 
You shall know all. You have wondered concerning the 
death of AVyvill — I know you have asked questions about 
it. I killed him.” 

He paused. 

“ You heard of the wreckers on that vessel cast on 
Doom Bar. I was their leader.” 

Again he paused. 

“ You thought I had sent Jamie out with a light to 
mislead the vessel. You thought right. I did have her 
drawn to her destruction, and by your brother.” 

He paused again. He saw Judith’s hand twitch : that 
was the only sign of emotion in her. 

“ And Lady Knighton’s jewels. I took them off her — it 
was I who tore her ear.” 

Again a stillness. The sky outside shone in at the 
window, a lurid red. From the kitchen could be heard 
the voice of a man singing. 

“ Now you know all,” said Coppinger. “ I would not 
have you take me finally, fully, unreservedly without 
knowing the truth. Give me your resolve.” 

She slightly lifted her hands; she looked steadily 
into his face with a stony expression in hers. 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ I cannot help myself — unreservedly yours.” 

Then he caught her to him, pressed her to his heart 


3S6 


IN THE ROAB OF THE SEA. 


and kissed her wet face — wet as though she had plunged 
it into the sea. 

“ To-morrow,” said he, “ to-morrow shall be our true 
wedding.” 

And he dashed out of the house. 


CHAPTEE m. 


TO JUDITH. 

In the smugglers’ cave were Oliver Menaida and the 
party of Preventive men, not under his charge, but under 
that of Wyvill. This man, though zealous in the exe- 
cution of his duty, and not averse, should the opportunity 
offer, of paying off a debt in full with a bullet, instead of 
committing his adversary to the more lenient hands of 
the law, shared in that failing, if it were a failing, of 
being unable to do anything without being primed with 
spirits, a failing that was common at that period, to 
coastguards and smugglers alike. The latter had to be 
primed in order to run a cargo, and the former must be 
in like condition to catch them at it. It was thought, 
not unjustly, that the magistrates before whom, if caught, 
the smugglers were brought, needed priming in order to 
ripen their intellects for pronouncing judgment. But 
it was not often that a capture was effected. When it 
was, priming was allowed for the due solemnization of 
the fact by the captors ; failure always entitled them to 
priming in order to sustain their disappointment with 
fortitude. Wyvill had lost a brother in the cause, and 
his feelings often overcame him when he considered his 
loss, and their poignancy had to be slaked with the 
usual priming. It served, as its advocates alleged, as a 
great stimulant to courage ; but it served also, as its 
deprecators asserted, as a solvent to discipline. 

Now that the party were in possession of the den of 
their adversaries, such a success needed, in their eyes, 
commemoration. They were likely, speedily, to have a 
tussle with the smugglers, and to x^^epare themselves 
for that required the priming of their nerves and sinews. 
They had had a sharp struggle with the sea in rounding 
Pentyre Point, and their unstrung muscles and joints 
demanded screwing up again by the same means. 

The Black Prince had been discerned through the fall- 


388 


IK THE ROaR OE the SEA. 


ing darkness drawing shoreward Avith the rising tide ; 
but it was certain that for another hour or two the men 
would have to wait before she dropped anchor, and those 
ashore came down to the unloading. 

A lantern was lighted, and the cave was explored. 
Certainly Coppinger’s men from the land would arrive 
before the boats from the Black Prince, and it was de- 
termined to at once arrest them, and then aAvait the con- 
tingent in the boats, and fall on them as they landed. 
The party was small, it consisted of but seven men, and 
it was advisable to deal with the smugglers piecemeal. 

The men, having leisure, brought out their food, and 
tapped the keg they had procured at the Bock. It was 
satisfactory to them that the Black Prince was appar- 
ently bent on discharging the cargo that night and in 
that place, thus they would not have to wait in the cave 
twenty -four hours, and not, after all, be disappointed. 

“ All your pistols charged ? ” asked Wy vill. 

“ Aye, aye, sir.” 

“ Then take your suppers while you may. We shall 
have hot work presently. Should a step be heard below, 
throw a bit o’ sailcloth over the lantern, Samson.” 

Oliver was neither hungry nor thirsty. He had both 
eaten and drunk sufficient when at the station. He there- 
fore left the men to make their collation, prime their 
spirits, pluck up their courage, screw up their nerves, 
polish their wits, all with the same instrument, and de- 
scended the slope of shingle, stooped under the brow of 
rock that divided the lower from the upiDer caA^e, and 
made his way to the entrance, and thence out over the 
sands of the cove. He knew that the shore could be 
reached only by the donkey -path, or by the dangerous 
track down the chimney — a track he had not discovered 
till he had made a third exploration' of the cave. Doavii 
this tortuous and perilous descent he was convinced the 
smugglers would not come. It was, he saw, but rarely 
used, and designed as a way of escape only on an emer- 
gency. A too-frequent employment of this path would 
have led to a treading of the turf on the cliff above, and 
to a marking of the line of descent, that Avould have 
attracted the attention of the curious, and revealed to 
the explorer the place of retreat. 

Oliver, therefore, went forward toward the point 
where the donkey-path reached the sands, deeming it 


/iV THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


389 


advisable that a watch should be kept on this point, so 
that his party might be forewarned in time of the ap- 
proach of the smugglers. 

There was much light in the sky, a fantastic, myster- 
ious glow, as though some great conflagration were 
taking place and the clouds over head reflected its flicker. 

There passed throbs of shadow from side to side, and 
as Oliver looked he could almost believe that the light 
he saw proceeded from a great bonfire, such as was 
kindled on the Cornish Moors on Midsummer’s Eve, and 
that the shadows were produced by men and women 
dancing round the flames and momentarily intercepting 
the light. 

Then ensued a change. The rose hue vanished sud- 
denly, and in its place shot up three broad ribbons of 
silver light ; and so bright and clear was the light that 
the edge of the cliff against it was cut as sharp as a black 
silhouette on white paper, and he could see every bush 
of gorse there, and a sheep — a solitary sheep. 

Suddenly he was startled by seeing a man before him, 
coming over the sand. 

“ Who goes there ? ” 

“ What — Oliver ! I have found you ! ” the answer was 
in his father’s voice. “ Oh, well, I got fidgeted, and I 
thought I would come and see if you had arrived.” 

“For heaven’s sake, you have told no one of our 
plans ? ” 

“ I — bless you, boy — not I. You know you told me 
yourself, before going to the station, what you intended, 
and I was troubled and anxious, and I came to see how 
things were turning out. The Black Prince is coming 
in ; she will anchor shortly. She can’t come beyond the 
point yonder. I was sure you would be here. How many 
have you brought with you 1 ” 

“ But six.” 

“ Too few. However, now I am with you, that makes 
eight.” 

“ I wish you had not come, father.” 

“My boy, I did not come only on your account. I 
have my poor little Ju so near my heart that I long to 
put out if only a finger to liberate her from that ruffian, 
whom by the way I have challenged.” 

“ Yes — but I have stepped in as your substitute. I 
shall, I trust, try conclusions with Coppinger to-night. 


390 m THE BOAR OF THE SEA. 

Come with me to the cave I told you- of. AVe will send a 
man to keep guard at the foot of the donkey path.” 

Oliver led the way ; the sands reflected the illumina- 
tion of the sky, and the foam that swept up the beach 
had a rosy tinge. The waves hissed as they rushed up 
the shore, as though impatient at men speaking and not 
listening to the voice of the ocean, that should subdue 
all human tongues, and command mute attention. And 
yet that roar is inarticulate, it is like the foaming fury 
of the dumb, that strives with noise and gesticulation to 
explain the thoughts that are working within. 

In the cave it was dark, and Oliver lighted a piece of 
touchwood as a means of observing the shelving ground, 
and taking his direction, till he passed under the brow 
of rock and entered the upper cavern. 

After a short scramble, the dim yellow glow of light 
from this inner recess was visible, when Oliver extin- 
guished his touchwood and pushed on, guided by this 
light. 

On entering the upper cave he was surprised to find 
the guards lying about asleep, and snoring. He went at 
once to AVyvill, seized him by the arm and shook him, 
but none of his efforts could rouse him. He lay as a log, 
or as one stunned. 

“Father! help me with the others,” said Oliver in 
great concern. 

Mr. Menaida went from one to the other, spoke to 
each, shook him, held the lantern to his eyes ; he raised 
their heads ; when he let go his hold, they fell back. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” asked Oliver. 

“ Humph ! ” said old Menaida, “ I’ll tell you what this 
means. There is a rogue among them, and their drink 
has been drugged with deadly night shade. You might 
be sure of this — that among six coast-guards one would 
be in the pay of Coppinger. Which is it ? AVhoever it 
is, he is pretending to be as dead drunk and stupefied as 
the others, and which is the man, Noll ? ” 

“I cannot tell. This keg of brandy was got at the 
Kock Inn.” 

“ It was got there and there drugged, but by one of 
this company. AVho is it ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Oliver, waxing wrathful, “ and what is 
more, notice was sent to Coppinger to be on his guard. 
I saw the sexton going in the direction of Pentyre.” 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


391 


‘‘ That man is a rascal.” 

“And now we shall not encounter Coppinger. He 
will be warned and not come.” 

“ Trust him to come. He has heard of this. He will 
come and murder them all as he did Wyvill.” 

Oliver felt as though a frost had fallen on him. 
“Hah!” said old Menaida. “Never trust anyone in 
this neighborhood ; you cannot tell who is not in the pay 
or under the control of Coppinger, from the magistrate 
^n the bench to the huckster who goes round the coun- 
try. ^ Among these six men, one is a spy and a traitor. 
Which it is we cannot tell. There is nothing else to be 
done but to bind them all, hand and foot. There is 
plenty of cord here.” 

“ Plenty. But surely not Wyvill.” 

“ y vili and all. How can you say that he is not the 
man who has done it ? Many a fellow has carried his 
brother in his pocket. ^ What if he has been bought ? ” 
Old Menaida was right. He had not lived so many 
years in the midst of smugglers without having learned 
something of their ways. His advice must be taken, for 
the danger was imminent. If, as he supposed, full in- 
formation had been sent to Cai^tain Cruel, then he and 
his men would be upon them shortly. 

Oliver hastily brought together all the cord of a suit- 
able thickness he could find, and the old father raised and 
held each Preventive man, while Oliver firmly bound 
him hand and foot. As he did not know which was sham- 
ming sleep, he must bind all. Of the six, five were 
wholly unconscious what was being done to them, and 
the sixth thought it advisable to pretend to be as the 
rest, for he was quite aware that neither Oliver nor his 
father would scruple to silence him effectually did he 
show signs of animation. 

When all were made fast, old Mr. Menaida said : 

“ Now, Noll, my boy, are you armed ? ” 

‘‘ No, father. When I went from home I expected to 
return. I did not know I should want weapons. But 
these fellows have their pistols and cutlasses.” 

“ Try the pistols. There, take that of the man Wyvill. 
Are you sure they are loaded ? ” 

“ i know they are.” 

“ Well, try.” 

Oliver took Wyvill’s pistol, and put in the ramrod 


392 


IJSr THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


“ Oh. yes, it is loaded.” 

“ Make sure. Draw the loading*. You don’t know what 
it is to have to do with Coppinger.” 

Oliver drew the charge, and then, as is usual, when 
the powder has been removed, blew down the barrel. 
Then he observed that there was a choke somewhere. 
He took the pistol to the lantern, opened the side of the 
lantern and examined it. The touch-hole was plugged 
with wax. 

“ Humph ! ” said Mr. Menaida. “ The man who drugged 
the liquor waxed the touch-holes of the pistols. Try 
the rest.” 

Oliver did not now trouble himself to draw the charges ; 
he cocked each man’s pistol and drew the trigger. Not 
one would discharge. All had been treated in like man- 
ner. 

Oliver thought for a moment what was to be done. 
He dared not leave the sleeping men unprotected, and ho 
and his father alone were insufficient to defend them. 

“Father,” said he, “there is but one thing that can 
be done now : you must go at once, fly to the nearest 
farmhouses and collect men, and, if possible, hold the 
donkey path before Coppinger and his men arrive. If 
you are too late, pursue them. I will choke the narrow 
entrance, and will light a Are. Perhaps they may be 
afraid when they see a blaze here,, and may hold off. 
Anyhow, I can defend this place for a while. But I 
don’t expect that they will attack it.” 

Mr. Menaida at once saw that his son’s judgment was 
right, and he hurried out of the cave, Oliver holding the 
light to assist him to descend, and then he made his way 
over the sands to the path, and up that to the downs. 

No sooner was he gone than Oliver collected what 
wood and straw were there, sailcloth, oilcloth, everything 
that was combustible, and piled them up into a heap, 
then applied the candle to them, and produced a flame. 
The wood was damp and did not burn freely, but he was 
able to awake a good Are that filled the cavern with light. 
He trusted that when the smugglers saw that their den 
was in the possession of the enemy they would not risk 
the attempt to enter and recover it. They might not, 
they probably did not, know to what condition the 
holders of the cave were reduced. 

The light of the fire roused countless bats that had 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


393 


made the roof of the cave their resting-place, and 
they flew wildly to and fro with whirr of wings and 
shrill screams. 

Oliver set to work with all haste to heap stones so as 
to choke the entrance from the lower cave, by which he 
anticipated that the smugglei’s would enter, should they 
resolve on so desperate a course. But owing to the 
rapid inclination, the pebbles yielded, and what he piled 
up rolled down. He then, with great effort, got the 
boat thrust down to the opening, and by main force 
drew it partly across. It was not possible for him com- 
pletely to block the entrance, but by planting the boat 
athwart it, he could prevent several men from entering at 
once, and whoever did enter must scramble over the bul- 
warks of the boat. 

All this took some time, and he was thus engaged, 
when his attention was suddenly arrested by the click of 
a pistol brought to the cock. He looked hastily about 
him, and saw Coppinger, who, unobserved, had de- 
scended by the chimney, and now by the light of the 
Are was taking deliberate aim at him. Oliver drew back 
behind a rock. 

“You coward!” shouted Captain Cruel. “Come out 
and be shot.” 

“ I am no coward,” answered Oliver. “ Let us meet 
with equal arms. 1 have a cutlass.” He had taken 
one from the side of a sleep-drunk coastguard. 

“ I prefer to shoot you down as a dog,” said Coppinger. 

Then holding his pistol levelled in the direction of 
Oliver, he approached the sleeping men. Oliver saw 
at once his object: he would liberate the confederate. 
He stepped out from behind the rock, and immediately 
the pistol was discharged. A bat fell at the feet of Oli- 
ver. Had not that bat at the moment whizzed past his 
head and received the ball in its soft and yielding body, 
the young man would have fallen shot through his head. 

Coppinger uttered a curse, and put his hand to his 
belt and drew forth his second pistol. But Oliver sprang 
forward, and with a sweep of his cutlass caught him 
on the wrist with the blade as he was about to touch 
the trigger. The pistol fell from his hand, and a rush 
of blood overflowed the back of the hand. 

Coppinger remained for one minute motionless. So 
did Oliver, who did not again raise his cutlass. 


394 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA, 


But at that moment a harsh voice was heard crying, 
“ There he is, my men, at him ; beat his brains out. A 
guinea for the first man who knocks him over,” and from 
the further side of the boat, illumined by the glare from 
the fire, were seen the faces of Mr. Scantlebray, his 
brother, and several men, who began to scramble over 
the obstruction. 

Then, and then only in his life, did Coppinger’s heart 
fail him. His right hand was powerlesss; the sharp 
blade had severed the tendons, and blood was flowing 
from his wrist in streams. One pistol was discharged, 
the other had fallen. In a minute he would be in the 
hands of his deadly enemies. 

He turned and fled. The light from the fire, the illu- 
mined smoke, rose through the chimney, and by that he 
could run up the familiar track, reach the platform in 
the face of the cliff, thence make his way by the path 
up which he had formerly borne Judith. He did not 
hesitate, he fled, and Oliver, also without hesitation, pur- 
sued him. As he went up the narrow track, his feet trod 
in and were stained with the blood that had fallen from 
Coppinger’s wounded arm, but he did not notice it — he 
was unaware of it till the morrow. 

Coppinger reached the summit of the cliffs. His feet 
were on the down. He ran at once in the direction of 
Othello Cottage. His only chance of safety lay there. 
There he could hide in the attic, and Judith would never 
betray him. In his desperate condition, wounded, his 
blood flowing from him in streams, hunted by his foes, 
that one thought was in him — Judith — he must go to 
Judith. She would never betray him, she would be 
hacked to death rather than give him up. To Judith as 
his last refuge 1 


CHAPTEK Lni. 


IN THE SMOKE. 

Judith left Pentyre Glaze when she had somewhat 
recovered herself after the interview with Coppinger 
and her surrender. She had fought a brave battle, but 
had been defeated and must lay down her arms. Resist- 
ance was no longer possible if Jamie was to be saved 
from a miserable fate. Now by the sacrifice of herself she 
had assured to him a future of calm and innocent hap- 
piness. She knew that with Uncle Zachie and Oliver he 
would be cared for, kindly treated, and employed. Undo 
Zachie himself was not to be trusted ; whatever he might 
promise, his good nature was greater than his judg- 
ment. But she had confidence in Oliver, who would 
prove a check on the over-indulgence which his father 
would allow. But Jamie would forget her. His light 
and unretentive mind was not one to harbor deep feel- 
ing. He would forget her when on board ship in his 
pleasure at running about the vessel chattering with the 
sailors, and would only think of her if he wanted aught 
or was ill. Rapidly the recollection of her, love for her, 
would die out of his mind and heart ; and as it died out 
of his, her thought and love for him would deepen and 
become more fixed, for she would have no one, nothing 
in the world to think of and love save her twin-brother. 

She walked on in the dark winter night, lighted only 
by the auroral glow overhead, and was conscious of a 
smell of tobacco-smoke that so persistently seemed to 
follow her that she was forced to notice it. She became 
uneasy, thinking that someone was walking behind the 
hedge with a pipe, watching her, perhaps waiting to 
spring out upon her when distant from the house, where 
her cries for help might not be heard. 

She stood still. The smell was strong. She climbed 
the hedge on one side and looked over; as far as she 
could discern in the red glimmer from the flushed sky 


396 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


there was no one there. She listened, she could hear no 
step. She walked hastily on to a gate in the hedge on 
the opposite side and went through that. The smell of 
burning tobacco was as strong there. J udith turned in 
the lane and walked back in the direction of the house. 
The smell pursued her. It was strange. Could she 
carry the odor in her clothes ? She turned again and re- 
sumed her walk toward Othello Cottage. Now she was 
distinctly aware that the scent came to her on the wind. 
Her perplexity on this subject served as a diversion of 
her mind from her own troubles. 

She emerged upon the downs, and made her way 
across them toward the cottage that lay in a dip, not 
to be observed except by one close to it. The wind 
when it brushed up from the sea was odorless. 

Presently she came in sight of Othello Cottage, and 
in spite of the darkness could see that a strange, dense, 
white fog surrounded it, especially the roof, which 
seemed to be wearing a white wig. In a moment 
she understood what this signified. Othello Cottage 
was on fire, and the stores of tobacco in the attic were 
burning. Judith ran. Her own troubles were forgot- 
ten in her alarm for Jamie. No fire as yet had broken 
through the roof. 

She reached the door, which was open. Mr. Scantle- 
bray in leaving had not shut the door, so as to allow the 
boy to crawl out should he recover sufficient intelligence 
to see that he was in danger. 

It is probable that Scantlebray, senior, would have 
made further efforts to save J amie, but that he believed 
he would meet with his brother, and two or three men 
he was bringing with him, near the house, and then it 
would be easy unitedly to drag the boy forth. He did, 
indeed, meet with Obadiah, but also at the same time 
with Uncle Zachie Menaida and a small party of farm- 
laborers, and when he heard that Mr. Menaida desired 
help to secure Coppinger and the smugglers, he thought 
no more of the boy and joined heartily in the attempt to 
rescue the Preventive men and take Coppinger. 

Through the open door dashed Judith, crying out to 
Jamie whom she could not see. There was a dense, 
white cloud in the room, let down from above, and curl- 
ing out at the top of the door, whence it issued as steam 
from a boiler. It was impossible to breathe in this fog 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


397 


of tobacco-smoke, and Judith knew that if she allowed it 
to surround her she would be stupefied. She therefore 
stooped and entered, calling Jamie. Although the thick 
mattress of white smoke had not as yet descended to the 
floor, and had left comparatively clear air beneath it — the 
in-draught from the door — yet the odor of the burning 
tobacco impregnated the atmosphere. Here and there 
curls of smoke descended, dropped capriciously from the 
,bed of vapor above, and wantonly played about. 

Judith saw her brother lying at full length near the 
fire. Scantlebray had drawn him partly to the door, but 
he had rolled back to his former position near the hearth, 
perhaps from feeling the cold wind that blew in on him. 

There was no time to be lost. Judith knew that flame 
must burst forth directly — directly the burning tobacco 
had charred through the rafters and flooring of the 
attic and allowed the fresh air from below to rush in 
and, acting as a bellows, blow the whole mass of glow- 
ing tobacco into flame. It was obvious that the fire had 
originated above in the attic. There was nothing burn- 
ing in the room, and the smoke drove downward in 
strips through the joints of the boards overhead. 

“ Jamie, come, come with me ! ” She shook the boy, 
she knelt by him and raised him on her knee. He was 
stupefied with cognac, and with the fumes of the burn- 
ing tobacco he had inhaled. 

She must drag him forth. He was no longer half- 
conscious as he had been when Mr. Scantlebray made 
the same attempt ; the power to resist was now gone 
from him. 

Judith was delicately made, and was not strong, but 
she put her arms under the shoulders of Jamie and her- 
self on her kness and dragged him along the floor. He 
was as heavy as a corpse. She drew him a little way and 
desisted, overcome, panting, giddy, faint. But time 
must not be lost. Every moment was precious. Judith 
knew that overhead in the loft was something that 
would not smoulder and glow, but burst into furious 
flame— spirits. Not, indeed, many kegs, but there were 
some. When this became .ignited their escape would 
be impossible. She drew Jamie further up; she was 
behind him. She thrust him forward as she moved on 
upon her knees, driving him a step further at every ad- 
vance. It was slow and laborious work. She could not 


398 


m THE BOAR OF THE SEA, 


maintain this effort for long and fell forward on her 
hands, and he fell also at the same time on the floor. 

Then she heard a sound, a roar, an angry growl. The 
shock of the fall, and striking his head against the slate 
pavement, roused Jamie momentarily and he also heard 
the noise. 

“ Ju ! the roar of the sea ! ” 

“ A sea of fire, Jamie ! Oh, do push to the door.” 

He raised himself on his hands, looked vacantly round, 
and fell again into stupid unconsciousness. Now still 
on her knees, but with a brain becoming bewildered with 
the fumes, she crept to his head, placed herself between 
him and the door, and holding his shoulders, dragged 
him toward her, she moving backward. 

Even thus she could make but little way with him ; 
his boot-tops caught in the edge of a slate slab ill fitted 
in the floor and held him, so that she could not pull him 
to her with the additional resistance thus caused. ^ Then 
an idea struck her. Staggering to her feet, holding her 
breath, she plunged in the direction of the window, beat 
it open, and panted in the inrush of pure air. AVith 
this new current wafted in behind her she returned amid 
the smoke, and for a moment it dissipated the density of 
the cloud about her. The window had faced the wind, 
and the rush of air through it was more strong than that 
which entered by the door. And yet this expedient did 
not answer as she had expected, for the column of strong, 
cold air pouring in from a higher level threw the cloud 
into confusion, stirred it up as it were, and lessened the 
space of uninvaded atmosphere below the descending- 
bed of vapor. 

Again she went to Jamie. The roar overhead had in- 
creased, some vent had been found, and the attic was in 
full flagrance. Now, drawing a long breath at the door, 
near the level of the ground, she returned to her brother 
and disengaged his foot from the slate, then dragged, 
then thrust, sometimes at his head, sometimes at his 
side; then again she had her arms round him, and 
swung herself forward to the right knee sideways ; then 
brought up the other knee, and swung herself Avith the 
dead weight in her arms again to the right, and thus 
was able to work her way nearer to the door, and, as she 
got nearer to the door, the air was clearer, and she was 
able to breathe freer. 


TS THE ROAE OE THE SEA, 


399 


At length she laid hold of the jamb with one hand, 
and with the other she caught the lappel of the boy’s 
coat, and assisted by the support she had gained, was 
able to drag him over the door-step. 

At that moment passed her rushed a man. She 
looked, saw and knew Coj)pinger. As he rushed passed, 
the blood squirting from his maimed right hand fell on 
the girl lying prostrate at the jamb to which she had 
clung. 

And now within a red light appeared, glowing through 
the mist as a fiery eye ; not only so, but every now and 
then a fiery rain descended. The burning tobacco had 
consumed the boards and was falling through in red 
masses. 

Judith had but just brought her brother into safety, 
or comparative safety, and now another, Coppinger, had 
plunged into the burning cottage, rushed to almost cer- 
tain death. She cried to him as well as she could with 
her short breath. She could not leave him within. Why 
had he run there ? She saw on her dress the blood that 
had fallen from him. She went outside the hut and 
dragged Jamie forth and laid him on the grass. Then, 
without hesitation, inhaling all the pure air she could, she 
darted once more into the burning cottage. Her eyes 
were stung with the smoke, but she pushed on, and found 
Coppinger under the open window, fallen on the floor, 
his back and head against the wall, his arms at his side, 
and the blood streaming over the slate pavement from 
his right gashed wrist. Accident or instinct — it could 
not have been judgment — had carried him to the only 
spot in the room where pure air was to be found, and 
there it descended like a rushing waterfall, blowing 
about the prostrate man’s wild long hair. 

“ Judith ! ” said he, looking at her, and he raised his 
left hand. “Judith, this is the end.” 

“ Oh, Captain Coppinger, do come out. The house is 
burning. Quick, or it will be too late.” 

“It is too late for me,” he said. “I am wounded.” 
He held up his half-severed hand. “I gave this to you 
and you rejected it.” 

“Come — oh, do come — or you and I will be burnt.” 
In the inrushing sweep of air both were clear of the 
smoke and could breathe. 

He shook his head. “ I am followed. I will not be 


400 


IN THE BOAR OF THE 8EA. 


taken. I am no good now — without my right hand. I 
will not go to jail.” 

She caught his arm, and tearing the kerchief from 
her neck, bound it round and round where the veins 
were severed. 

“It is in vain,” he said. “I have lost most of my 
blood. Ju ! ” — he held her with his left hand — “ Ju, if 
you live, swear to me, swear you will sign the regis- 
ter.” 

She was looking into his face — it was ghastly, partly 
through loss of blood, partly because lighted by the 
glare of the burning tobacco that dropped from above. 
Then a sense of vast pity came surging over her along 
with the thought of how he had loved her. Into her 
burning eyes tears came. 

“ Judith ! ” he said, “ I made my confession to you — I 
told you my sins. Give me also my release. Say you 
forgive me.” 

She had forgotten her peril, forgotten about the fire 
that was above and around, as she looked at his eyes, 
and, holding the maimed right arm, felt the hot blood 
welling through her kerchief and running over her 
hand. 

“ I pray you, oh, I pray you, come outside. There is 
still time.” 

Again he shook his head. “ My time is up. I do not 
want to live. I have not your love. I could never win 
it, and if I went outside I should be captured and sent 
to prison. Will you give me my absolution ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” And in her trembling con- 
cern for him — in the intensity of her pity, sorrow, care 
for him — she drew his wounded hand to her and pressed 
it against her heaving bosom. 

“ What I mean is, can you forgive me ? ” 

“ Indeed — indeed I do.” 

“ What — all I have done ? ” 

“All.” 

She saw only a dying man before her, a man who 
might be saved if he would, but w^ould not because her 
’jove was everything to him, and that he never, never 
could gain. Would she make no concession to him ? 
could she not draw a few steps nearer ? As she looked 
into his face and held his bleeding arm to her bosom, 
pity overpowered her — pity, when she saw how strong 


IK THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


401 


had been this wild and wicked man’s love. Now she 
truly realized its depth, its intensity, and its tender- 
ness alternating- with stormy blasts of passion, as he 
wavered between hope and fear, and the despair that 
was his when he knew he must lose her. 

Then she stooped, and, the tears streaming- over her 
face, she kissed him on his brow, and then on his lips, 
and then drew back, still holding- his maimed hand, with 
both of hers crossed over it, to her heaving- bosom. 
Kneeling-, she had her eyes on his, and his were on hers 
— steady, searching-, but with a gentle light in them. 
And as she thus looked she became unconscious, and 
sank, still holding his hand, on the floor. . 

At that instant, through the smoke and raining 
masses of burning tobacco, plunged Oliver Menaida. He 
saw Judith, bent, caught her in his arms, and rushed 
back through the door. 

A moment after and he was at the entrance again, to 
plunge through and rescue his wounded adversary ; but 
the moment when this could be done was past. There 
was an explosion above, followed by a fall as of a sheet 
of blue light, a curtain of fire through the mist of white 
smoke. No living man could pass that. Oliver went 
round to the window, and strove to enter by that way ; 
the man who had taken refuge there was still in the 
same position, but he had torn the kerchief of Judith 
from the bleeding arm, and he held it to his mouth, 
looking with fixed eyes into the falling red and blue fires 
and the swirling flocks of white smoke. 

There were iron bars at the window. Oliver tore at 
these to displace them. 

“ Coppinger ! ” he shouted, ‘‘ stand up — help me to 
break these bars ! ” 

But Coppinger would not move, or, possibly, the 
power was gone from him. The bars were firmly set. 
They had been placed in the windows by Coppinger’s 
orders and under his own supervision, to secure Othello 
Cottage, his store-place, against invasion by the inquisi- 
tive. 

At length Oliver succeeded in wrenching one bar 
away, and now a gap was made through which he might 
reach Coppinger and draw him forth through the win- 
dow. He was scrambling in when the Captain stag- 
gered to his feet. 


402 


IN THE ROAU OF THE SEA. 


“ Let me alone,” said he. “ You have won what I have 
lost. Let me alone. I am defeated.” 

Then he stepped into the mass of smoke and falling- 
liquid blue fire and dropping masses of red glowing to- 
bacco. A moment more, and the whole of the attic 
floor, with all the burning contents of the garret, fell in. 


CHAPTEK LIV. 

SQUAB PIE. 

Next morning, at an early hour, Judith, attended by 
Mr. Zachary Menaida, appeared at the rectory of St. 
Enodoc. She was deadly pale, but there was decision in 
her face. She asked to see Mr. Desiderius Mules in his 
study, and was shown into what had, in her father’s days, 
been the pantry. 

Mr. Menaida had a puzzled look in his watery eyes. 
He had been up all night, and indeed it had been a night 
in which few in the neighborhood had slept, excepting 
Mr. Mules, who knew nothing of what had happened. 
The smugglers, alarmed by the fire at Othello Cottage, 
and by the party collected by Mr. Menaida to guard the 
descent to the beach, had not ventured to force their way 
to the cave. The Black Prince, finding that no signal 
was made from the ledge above the cave, suspected mis- 
chief, heaved anchor and bore away. The stupefied 
memlDers of the Preventive service were conveyed to the 
nearest cottages, and there left to recover. As for Othello 
Cottage, it was a blazing and smoking mass of fire, and 
till late on the following day could not be searched. 
There was no fire-engine anywhere near ; nor would a 
fire-engine have availed to save either the building or its 
contents. 

When Mr. Mules appeared, Judith said in a quiet but 
firm tone, “ I have come to sign the register. Mr. Me- 
naida is here. I do it willingly, and with no constraint.” 

“ Thank you. This is most considerate to my feelings. 
I wish all my flock would obey my advice as you are 
now doing,” said the rector, and produced the book, 
which Judith signed with trembling hand. 

Mr. Desiderius was quite ignorant of the events of the 
night. He had no idea that at that time Captain Cop- 
pinger was dead. 


404 


IN THE ..MAR OF THE SEA, 


It was not till some days later that Judith understood 
why, at the last moment, with death before his eyes, 
Copping*er had urged on her this ratification of her mar- 
riage. It was not till his will was found, that she under- 
stood his meaning. He had left to her, as his wife, 
everything that he possessed. No one knew of any 
relatives that he had, for no one knew whence he came. 
No one ever appeared to put in a claim against the 
widow. 

On the second day the remains of the burnt cottage 
were cleared away, and then the body of Cruel Cop- 
pinger was found, fearfully charred, and disfigured past 
recognition. There were but two persons who knew 
that this blackened corpse belonged to the long dreaded 
captain, and these were Judith and Oliver. When the 
burnt body was cleared from the charred fragments of 
clothing that were about it one article was discovered 
uninjured. About his throat Coppinger had worn a 
silk handkerchief, and this as well as the collar of his 
coat had preserved his neck and the upper portion of 
his chest from injury such as had befallen the rest of 
his person. And when the burnt kerchief was removed, 
and the singed cloth of the coat -collar, there was discov- 
ered round the throat a narrow black band, and sewn 
into this band, one golden thread of hair, encircling the 
neck. 

Are our readers acquainted with that local delicacy 
entitled, in Cornwall and Devon, Squab Pie ? To en- 
lighten the ignorant, it shall be described. First, how- 
ever, we premise that of squab pies there are two sorts : 
Devonian squab and Cornish squab. The Cornish squab 
differs from the Devonian squab in one particular ; that 
shall be specified presently. 

Hoio to Make a Squab Pie . — Take half a pound of veal, 
cut into nice square pieces, and put a layer of them at 
the bottom of a pie-dish. Sprinkle over these a portion 
of herbs, spices, seasoning, lemon-peel, and the yolks of 
eggs cut in slices ; cut a quarter of a pound of boiled 
ham very thin, and put in a layer of this. Take half a 
pound of mutton cut into nice pieces, and put a layer 
of them on the top of the veal. Sprinkle as before 
with herbs and spices. Take half a pound of beef, cut 
into nice pieces, and put a layer of them on top of 


liV THE ROAn THE 8Ea. 


405 


the mutton. Sprinkle as before with herbs and spices. 
Cut up half a dozen apples very fine, also half a dozen 
onions, mix, and proceed to ram the onions and apples 
into every perceivable crevice. Take half a dozen pilch- 
ards, remove the bones, chop up and strew the whole 
pie with pilchards. Then fill up with clotted cream, till 
the pie-dish will hold no more. (For Cornish squab 
add, treated in like manner, a cormorant.) Proceed to 
lay a puff paste on the edge of the dish. Then insert a 
tablespoon and stir the contents, till your arm aches. 
Cover with crust or ornament it with leaves, brush it 
over with the yolk of an egg, and bake in a well-heated 
oven for one or one and a half hour, or longer, should 
the pie be very large (two in the case of a Cornish squab, 
and the cormorant very tough). 

In one word, a squab pie is a scrap pie. So is the 
final chapter of a three-volume novel. It is made up, 
from the first word to the last, of scraps of all kinds, 
toothsome and the reverse. 

Now let the reader observe — he has been already sup- 
plied with scraps. He has learned the result of Mr. 
Menaida’s collecting men to assist him against the 
smugglers. Also of his expedition along with Judith 
to the rectory of St. Enodoc. Also he has heard the 
provisions of Captain Coppinger’s will; also that this 
will was not contested. He has also heard of the recov- 
ery of the Captain’s body from the burnt cottage. 

Is not this a collection of scraps cut very small ? But 
there are more, of a different character, with which this 
chapter will be made up, before the pie-crust closes over 
it with a flourishing “ Einis ” to ornament it. 

Mr. Scantlebray had lost his wife, who had been an ail- 
ing woman for some years, and being a widower, cast 
about his eyes for a second wife, after the way of wid- 
owers. There was not the excuse of a young family 
needing a prudent housewife to manage the children, 
for Mr. Scantlebray had only one daughter, who had 
been allotted by her father and by popular opinion to 
Captain Coppinger, but had failed to secure him. Mr. 
Scantlebray, though an active man, had not amassed 
much money, and if he could add to his comforts, pro- 
vide himself with good eating and good drinking, by 
marrying a woman with money, he was not averse to 
go doing. Now, Mr. Scantlebray had lent a ready ear 


406 


IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


to the voice of rumor which made Miss Dionysia Tre- 
visa the heiress who had come in for all the leavings 
of that rich old spinster, Miss Ceely, of St. Austell, 
and Mr. Scantlebray gave credit to this rumor, and act- 
ing on it, proposed to and was accepted by Miss Dion- 
ysia. 

Now when, after marriage, Mr. Scantlebray found 
out that the sweet creature he had taken to his side 
was worth under a quarter of the sum he had set down 
at the lowest figure, at which he could endure her, 
and when the late Miss Ti’evisa, now the second Mrs. 
Scantlebray, learned from her husband’s lips that he had 
married her only for her money, and not for her good 
looks or for any good quality she was sujjposed to be 
endowed with, the reader, knowing something of the 
characters of these two persons, may conjecture, if he 
please, what sort of scenes ensued daily between them, 
and it may be safely asserted that the bitterest enemies 
of either could not have desired for each a more unen- 
viable lot than was theirs. 

Very shortly after the death of Captain Coppinger, 
Judith and Jamie left Bristol in a vessel, with Uncle 
Zachie, bound for Lisbon. Oliver Menaida had gone to 
Oporto before, to make arrangements for his father. It 
was settled that Judith and her brother should live 
with the old man, and that the girl should keep house 
for him. Oliver Avould occupy his old quarters, that 
belonged to the firm in which he was a partner. 

It is a strange thing — but after the loss of Coppinger 
Judith’s mind reverted much to him, she thought long 
and tenderly of his considerations for her, his patience 
with her, his forbearance, his gentleness toward her, and 
of his intense and enduring love. His violence she for- 
got, and she put down the crimes he had committed to 
evil association, or to an irregulated, undisciplined con- 
science, excusable in a measure in one who had not 
the advantages she had enjoyed, of growing up under 
the eye of a blameless, honoralDle, and right-minded 
father. 

In the Consistory Court of Canterbury is a book of 
the marriages performed at the Oporto factory, by the 
English chaplain resident there. It begins in the year 
1788 and ends in 1807. The author has searched this 
volume in vain for a marriage between Oliver Menaida 


m THE ROAR OF THE SEA. 


407 


and Juditli Coppinger. If such a marriage did take 
place, it must have been after 1807, but the book of 
register of marriages later than this date is not to be 
found in the Consistory Court. 

VV ere they married ? 

On inquiry at St. Enodoc no information has been 
obtained, for neither Judith nor the Menaidas had any 
relatives there with whom they communicated. If Mrs. 
Scantlebray ever heard, she said nothing, or, at all 
events, nothing she said concerning them has been re- 
membered. 

Were they ever married ? 

That question the reader must decide as he likes. 


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.3 splendidly illustrated by Charles Grunwald. 

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List of new books 

By OUIDA (Louise de la Rame)* 

Santa Barbara* i2mo, 303 pages. Cloth binding. 50c. 

In this collection of the gems of Ouida’s storiettes, the author takes 
the reader to the fog-bound shores of the Adriatic, along enchanting 
wharves and quays, through gorgeous palaces and cathedrals, and 
introduces the most charming characters in fiction. 

The Tower of Taddeo* i2mo, 313 pages. Cloth 

binding. 50c. 

This is a pathetic story of an old bookseller who, having no idea of 
money, gathers treasures of old books, which, with the extravagance 
of an ungrateful son, ruins him. He has a daughter who lives, loves 
and cares for him, who becomes betrothed to a poor artist. It is a story 
of simple trusting ignorance on the one hand and grasping dishonesty 
on the other. 

By J* MACLAREN COBBAN* 

A Soldier and a Gentleman* i2mo, 21 1 pages. Cloth 

binding. 50c. 

The hero is a manly youth, who has seen service in the English 
army, and who, upon his return to a civilian’s life, finds himself rather 
out of his element and extremely hard up. For a consideration, he 
agrees to represent another person, and in this compromising position 
makes love to a pretty, and, at the same time, wealthy young woman. 
How he proves himself to Ido a Soldier and a Gentleman mus^ be left 
to the reader to discover. 

By EDWARD W* TOWNSEND* 

A Daughter of the Tenements* i2mo, 301 pages. 
Cloth binding. . 50c. 

This work is the master product of the author of “Chimmie 
Fadden.” In “ Chimmie Fadden,” we laugh at the humor of t-side 
life. In “A Daughter of the Tenements,” we have the real pxthos 
and tragedy of life in the tenements of New York, written by one 
who I nows the people and their ways and hearts, and how to write it 
all — aj no one has ever known and written of that district before. 

By BILLY BURGUNDY* 

Toothsome Tales Told m Slang* Illustrated. i6mo, 
120 pages. Cloth binding. 75c. 

Here are vivid pages from the everyday lives of fascinating 
women before and behind the foot-lights. The yarns are dainty, 
sometimes humorously pathetic, sometimes uproariously funny, but 
always delightful. “One begins the book with a smile, and puts it 
away with a number one size laugh, and a feeling that it has been 
worth while to cultivate the acquaintance of Billy Burgundy’s slang 
of the Rialto.” 

.0 a) An; Tolnme sent, postpaid, upon receipt of price 

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, ^ jt NEV YORK 


Works by amedee Achard 

This author is not as familiar to American and English readers as 
the merit of his work would warrant, but it is a positive pleasure to 
exploit the writings of one so well equipped for a foremost position in 
the school of which Alexandre Dumas, Theophile Gautier and Stanley 
J. Weyman are the accepted standards. Mons. Achard’s works are 
popular favorites with the French people, and the excellent trans* 
lations of his best novels which we are presenting to the public in 
moderate^riced editions cannot fail to please and satisfy all lo^'^ers 
of ‘-‘The Three Musketeers,” and works of like tenor. 

Belle Rose — A Romance of the Cloak and Sword. 
Translated by William Hale, with a biography of 
the author. Five full -page illustraTcps. i2mo, 
368 pages. Cloth binding. - $1.25 

“Belle-Rose” is a romance in which the hero undc.'v^'kes and con- 
quers all manner of difficulties for the love of a woman. The author 
throws the glamour of love and war over all, introducing sucxi cele- 
brated characters in history as to give it an air of reality. 

The Dragoons of La Gtierche — A Sequel to ^‘ The 
Huguenot’s Love.” Translated by Richard Duffy. 
Five full-page illustrations. i2mo, 358 pages. 
Cloth binding. $1.25 

Although “The Huguenot’s Love” is so complete and fascinating a 
story in itself, the sequel is bound to prove a still greater satisfaction 
to the reader. In “The Dragoons of La Guerche” we find the two 
heroes of the former tale riding at the head of their band of cavalry 
through the most hostile territory of Europe in the quest of the two 
fair women they loved. 

The Sword of a Gascon* Translated by William 
Hale. Five full-page illustrations. i2mo, 289 pages. 
Cloth binding. $1.25 

This story of the reign of Louis XIV. is a typical “romance of the 
cloak and sword.” The Gascon hero is bold and daring, like all those 
of his race. He is an accomplished swordsman, a gallant cavalier, 
who pays court to an inn-keeper’s daughter or the niece of, a cardinal 
with equal grace and equal success. 

The Hi*guenoFs Love* Translated by Richard Duffy. 
Five full-page illustrations. i2mo, 333 pages. Cloth 
binding. $1.25 

In this volume the gifted author gives a splendid picture of the 
religious strife which paralyzed all Europe in the middle of the 
seventeenth century. The two main characters are in religion ene- 
mies, but persona’ly the dearest of friends. They are valiant French- 
men, who under the standard of Gustavus Adolphus, engaged in the 
immortal Thirty Years’ War. Their sweethearts follow them in their 
expedition and incur some marvelous adventures. 

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Works by Henry Harland 

Mrs. Peixada* i2mo, 317 pages. Cloth binding. 75c. 

The hero, a young lawyer whose first case is the tracking of Mrs. 
Peixada, a charming woman of about twenty-three summers, accused 
of shooting her husband. The plot is as peculiar as that of “As It 
Was Written.” The denouement is a thorough surprise 

Mademoiselle Miss, and other stories. i2mo, 192 pages* 
Cloth binding. 750. 

The title-story of the present volume, as well as those which follow 
it, shows the same clear insight into character, the same strength and 
delicacy of description, and the same faculty of individualizing the 
personages of the narrative, as are manifest in Mr. Harland’s previous 
work. 

Mea Culpa — A W Oman’s Last Word. 1 2mo, 347 pages. 
Cloth binding. 75c. 

To save her father, a woman marries a European prince. It is a 
loveless marriage and the life is a bitter one. A former lover appears ; 
there is a duel ; the prince dies. Then, instead of marriage bells, there 
is the sadness of farewell. The lover feels himself a murderer and 
takes his own life in an agony of despair. 

The Yoke of the Thorah* i2mo, 320 pages. Cloth 
binding. 75c. 

Two lovers were to be married in the spring. That one was a Jew 
and the other a Christian didn’t seem to matter. But the God of 
Israel intervenes through a venerable rabbi, and a struggle begins 
between hope and doubt. The story is taken up with the attempts of 
the lovers to come together and the plans of the elders to keep them 
separate. 

As it Was Written — A Jewish Musician’s Story. 1 2mo, 
252 pages. Cloth binding. 7^c. 

“As It Was Written ” is the confession of a man who, under peculiar 
circumstances, murders the woman he loves and then gives himself 
up to the punishment that the terrible crime demands. 

Grandison Mather — An account of the fortunes of Mr. 
and Mrs. Thomas Gardner. i2mo, 338 pages. Cloth 
binding. 75 c. 

The opening chapter gives a sunny picture of Tom’s vacation in 
Paris, after finishing his college course, and his courtship of “Mrs. 
Tom.” After many experiences Tom writes a successful novel and 
makes some money. The story is a simple every-day one throughout 
and is charmingly told. It is full of graphic pictures of New York life. 

A Latin-Quarter Courtship, and other stories. i2mo, 
269 pages. Cloth binding. 75c. 

The first story covers 190 pages, and is a charmingly told tale of 
life and love in Paris, in which the actors are an American woman 
doctor, her friend a young French girl, and an American author. The 
two latter, of course, fall in love with each other. 

(c s) A«y volume sent, postpaid, upon receipt of price 
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, ^ ^ ^ NEW YORK 


THE SEASHORE AND 
MOUNTAIN SERIES 


A NEW SERIES OF 12mo 
Handsomely bound in cloth, stamped in colors 
Price, per volume. Fifty Cents 

Averil Rosa Nouchette Carey 

Bam Wildfire Helen B* Mathers 

Black Rock Ralph Connor 

Beatrice H* Rider Hagfg'ard 

Bondman, The Hall Caine 

Black Carnation, The Fergfus Hume 

Cardinal Sin, A Hugfh Conway 

Consequences Egferton Castle 

Cruise of the Cachelot, The • .Frank T* BuIIen 

Dead Secret, The- Wilkie Collins 

Difficult Matter, A Mrs* Emily Lovett Cameron 

Doctor Jack St* Georgfe Rathborne 

Dugfdale Millions, The Barclay North 

Facingf the Footlig-hts Florence Marryat 

Fatal Silence, A Florence Marryat 

Fever of Life, The Fergfus Hume 

First Violin, The Jessie Fothergfill 

Frozen Pirate, The W* Clark Russell 

Gentleman from Gascony, A . Bicknell Dudley 
Heaps of Money W* E* Norris 


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THE SEASHORE AND 
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Heir of Linne, The Robert Buchanan 

Her Faithful Knigfht Gertrude Warden 

His Word of Honor E* Werner 

In the Golden Days Edna Lyall 

In the Roar of the Sea S* Barmgf Gould 

In Strangfe Company Guy Boothby 

Kidnapped Robert Louis Stevenson 

Little Cuban Rebel, The Edna Winfield 

Livingf or Dead Hugfh Conway 

Lorna Doone R* D* Blackmorc 

Lucky Young: Woman, A F* G Philips 

Man in Possession "Rita^ 

Master of Ballantrae, The Robert Louis Stevenson 

Master of the Mine, The Robert Buchanan 

Miss Kate ^Rita" 

Mr* Meeson^s Will H* Rider Hagfgfard 

Nobler Sex, The Florence Marry at 

Of the World, Worldly Mrs* Forrester 

Perilous Secret, A Charles Reade 

Price He Paid, The E* Werner 


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Ralph Ryder of Brent Florence Warden 

She Fell in Love With Her 

Husband E* Werner 

Should She Have Left Him?. .Barclay North 

Splendid Spur, The A* T* Quiller Couch 

Stormy Weddmgf, A Mary E* Bryan 

That Beautiful Wretch William Black 

Thelma Marie Corelli 

Those Girls John Strangle Winter 

Treasure Island Robert Louis Stevenson 

True To Herself Mrs* J* H* Walforth 

Uncle Tom^s Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe 

Under Two Flagfs ^Ouida^^ 

Weddingf Ringf, The Robert Buchanan 

Wee Wifie Rosa Nouchette Carey 

White Company, The A* Conan Doyle 

We Two Edna Lyall 

Won by Waiting: Edna Lyall 

Wormwood Marie Corelli 

Yale Man, A Robert Lee Tyler 

Young* Mrso Jar dine Miss Mulock 

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